


Much Abides

by intentandinvention



Series: Much Abides [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Boyle Family Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Corvo just wants to sleep why won't they let him sleep, Everyone Is Plotting, Fluff, Gay River Pirates, Gen, Kaldwin-Attano Family Feels, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Not Canon Compliant - Dishonored 2, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Past Corvo/Jessamine, Post-Canon, Whaler Family Feels, look i just have a lot of feels about families in Dishonored okay, mildly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentandinvention/pseuds/intentandinvention
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lord Regent is imprisoned and Dunwall Tower reclaimed for Lady Emily Kaldwin, but there's still so much to do to ensure the recovery of Dunwall and the Empire. Corvo has to decide who he can trust and who he can't afford to turn his back on, and he's never been very good at politics.</p><p>Post-game, mainly Corvo POV but switching around others. Now complete and edited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Corvo: Kingsparrow Island

**Author's Note:**

> Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'  
> We are not now that strength which in old days  
> Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are  
> -Alfred, Lord Tennyson  
>  
> 
> My first official Dishonored fic - hope you enjoy! Let me know if anything needs to be tagged. Please note that there are some changes to the canon timeline in this fic: firstly, that Lady Boyle’s last party takes place a couple of weeks before Corvo is betrayed by the Loyalists, and secondly that Daud deals with Delilah within that time, so the entire issue is resolved by the time Corvo turns up at Rudshore.

There is, Corvo thinks as Havelock raises the pistol to his own head, something that he could do about this, but he’s tired and aching and he can hear Emily yelling in fear, and he’s honestly not sure that he can stop himself from killing the man if he saves him. So he turns his head away as the gunshot cracks, deafening this close, and the blood spatters his hood and shoulder, warm and heavy.

Emily has gone quiet. He looks at the mess sprawled at his feet as he pushes his hood down, blood slicking his gloves. He can’t let her see the body. ‘I’m here,’ he calls. ‘I’ll let you out in a minute.’

A moment, but then, quiet and wavering, ‘Be quick?’

‘I will.’

In the silence that follows, he becomes aware that Jessamine’s heart is beating frantically beside his, and he turns in confusion towards the table, and the two bodies that are at least still whole. Pendleton is slumped across the table, as undignified in death as he tended to be in life, but Martin is leaning back in his chair as if he’s just slipped into sleep, the empty glass fallen from his hand, and when Corvo looks at him the heartbeat speeds up, almost unbearable, as if he’s right next to a rune. Confused, he closes his eyes and lets the Void fill them, and when he opens them again he can see the yellow outline of a bonecharm in Martin’s breast pocket - and the slow rise and fall of it. The man is breathing.

Corvo’s mind races, and practicality wins out. A High Overseer who knows what Corvo can do, and has used it? Martin’s too useful to die if he can be saved. And besides, he almost likes the man, with his dry wit and unashamed blasphemy. Piero had mumbled something about the poison being possible to purge with salt water, and the chances are that the bonecharm in Martin’s pocket has weakened it anyway. So Corvo blinks forward, and none-too-gently slings Martin over his shoulder before grabbing a decanter and blinking out to the walkway, dropping the body onto the stair. The Overseer mumbles something, and Corvo doesn’t catch the poison-numbed speech, but the groan of sheer terror as he leaps out into the empty air is easy (and somewhat gratifying).

He blinks away from the waiting sea and lands softly on the rocks, grateful for the respite from Jessamine’s pounding heart in such proximity to a bonecharm. He washes the decanter out and fills it with seawater, blinks his way back up the lighthouse.

‘You’re going to live,’ he warns the Overseer as he climbs up through the walkway bars. Piero’s usually right, after all, and if he isn’t then Martin won’t be around to tell the lie. Corvo props Martin up against his chest, holds him there as he raises the decanter to slack lips. The Overseer jerks as the cold laps against his tongue, and he makes an attempt at a struggle; he chokes and gags on the freezing salt water until Corvo’s wondering if the man actually wants to die. Well, he's forfeited that choice, and when Corvo narrows it down to swallow or breathe, the Overseer's reflexes betray him. It’s not long before he starts to retch seawater tinged purple by poison, and Corvo pushes the man's head over the edge of the walkway then turns him onto his side so that he won’t choke on his own vomit, and leaves him there. He considers taking the charm, but it may well be all that's keeping Martin alive - and anyway, Emily is waiting.

A heavy curtain takes care of Havelock’s body, and he steps over it and unlocks the door. Emily throws her arms around him and cries like he hasn't seen her do since she was six. She mumbles that she's sorry that she let them take him away, that she's sorry she trusted them, and he strokes her hair and makes soft, soothing noises until she finally steps back, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘We're a mess,’ she says hoarsely, and he's reminded forcefully of her mother after the Emperor’s death. Her eyes skip carefully over the mound of curtain on the floor, don’t miss the blood soaking into the heavy cloth. ‘They'll be waiting for Havelock out there, not us. We'll need to make them see the Empress and the Lord Protector, not a little girl and a wanted man.’

He pulls the mask off, and she frowns as she sees his face.

‘When did you last shave, Corvo? Or brush your hair?’

He’s dragged unceremoniously to a small powder room, where she directs him to wash his face and hands as she picks through the cupboard. It feels odd to take off his gloves anywhere but the attic room at the top of the Hound Pits, but as he cups water in his hands, Emily deposits shaving gear and a metal brush on the surface to his left as if she hasn't even noticed the Mark branded black into his skin, then sits herself on a stool and starts detangling the fraying red ribbon from her wind-tossed hair.

Corvo washes, the water turning a muddy black from the dirt and oil on his skin, then runs a new basin and works up a lather with the soap. It's only the barest start to a beard – the mask isn't designed for facial hair – but he was always clean-shaven as Lord Protector.

It's only a matter of time before the men he knocked out on the way up here wake and start to call an alarm; they have to be quick. But now, right now, they're safe, and the sunset's streaming in the windows, and Emily's humming softly as she brushes out her hair. He lets himself drift, just for a few moments, and pretends that the waves below them are lapping at the Tower lock, and that if he turns just a little, he might perhaps just catch the scent of Jessamine's favourite perfume (it smelled of soft sheets and summer days and a little yellow flower that grows wild in the groves of Serkonos), rather than the iron-and-copper of Havelock's blood soaking into his coat.

Emily's quiet voice breaks through his thoughts. ‘What happens now?’

He washes off the razor, looks at her in the mirror as he folds it. ‘You know,’ he reminds her.

She swallows, nods slowly as if the motion is dredging up memories of her lessons. She's silent whilst he rinses the foam off his face, then, ‘I'm the Empress now. You saved Martin so that he could crown me, so it was all settled – and the Abbey will be needed to help Dunwall recover. We'll need a new Regent, to reign until I reach my majority. And ... and the Plague,’ she adds, her confidence suddenly shrinking almost visibly. ‘What can I do about the Plague?’

The brush pulls even at the ends of his hair, but he starts to work out the snarls. He wears it tied back with the mask, but Dunwall is used to a Lord Protector with shoulder-length hair loose about his jaw. ‘Piero and Sokolov are working on a cure,’ he says. ‘Until then, you'll need to look after the ones who are left. No more witch hunts, no more tallboys shooting civilians. Geoff Curnow's leading the City Watch; let him do what he needs to.’ He looks at her over his shoulder. ‘A lot of people are still going to die.’

She nods, seems to gather herself. ‘Then we'll save what we can.’ There's quiet then, except for the brush scraping through his hair. It goes on for a while before he lifts his eyes to look at her again. Her gaze shifts to his left hand, and he understands.

‘I'd be dead now without this, and you as well,’ he says.

‘I saw the same mark on the man who killed Mother,’ she replies coldly. ‘She would be alive now without the Outsider.’

‘Burrows would have found another way if Daud was unavailable. Besides, Daud saved your life as well.’

A dark eyebrow arches, and it's only then that he recalls that Delilah was Marked as well and realises he doesn't have time to explain something he doesn't fully understand himself. He’s going to have a good long talk with a certain dark-eyed leviathan when this is done. ‘Just... hear me out when we have the time,’ he appeals. ‘You can't tell anyone about it.’

‘I’m ten, not stupid,’ she snaps sulkily, but the anger has receded a little. He returns to brushing his hair, and can almost hear her thinking. It's as he's drawing his gloves back on that he hears the quiet intake of breath that means she's got something else to say, and when she says it he feels as if she's punched him in the stomach.

‘Are you my father?’

He's known it was coming for a while, in a way, with Jessamine dead and Emily having no other living relatives. Of course she was going to ask sooner or later, given the rumours that have been flying since Jessamine's belly started to curve, and she probably heard even more speculation at the Golden Cat. And she has a right to know. He'd assumed Jessamine would tell her when she came of age, so they never really talked about it.

So he never actually found out.

The balance of probability leans towards a yes. Yes, he and Jessamine slept together more than once before Emily was born (and after as well). Yes, he's counted the weeks in his head a thousand times and it's certainly possible. Jessamine never actually said that Emily wasn't his child. She wasn't exceptionally close to many other men during that time – but they'd also had the understanding that he was her Lord Protector and friend, not some jealous suitor, and since his chambers were so close to hers he knew that she'd taken other men to her bed, but he'd never really wanted to find out who they were so he never had.

‘I might be,’ he says finally. That's the best answer he can give her.

There's a whole range of emotions in her eyes before she settles on a gentle smile. ‘Okay. That will have to do for now.’

He can't help gaping at her flippancy. ‘For now?’

Now the smile is a grin, the one he usually gets when she's hidden from him for hours in the Tower grounds. ‘My Royal Spymaster will have some work to do,’ she says impishly, and then next moment she's all business. ‘Will Martin come down with us?’

He nods. ‘I'll speak to him first.’ He unbuckles the bandolier holding the bone charms across his chest, and considers what to do with them - a Lord Protector can't wear such things openly. The bandolier can't be hidden beneath his greatcoat, and it's too bulky to be concealed even in the voluminous pockets. Emily holds out her hand.

‘Give that to me, and the mask,’ she says, and he hands them over, wondering if it’s the last time he’ll see them, if she’ll throw them into the sea. She leaves the room, and he stares into the mirror for a moment and wonders who it is that he’s looking at.

She's disappeared when he leaves the little room, so he goes to see to his Overseer. When he steps outside the wind is keen and cold, whistling low around the glass building, and Martin is sprawled on the metal floor, shivering. That's good; that means he's still alive. He closes his eyes for a moment when he sees Corvo, perhaps gathering himself. There's a part of Corvo that wants to kill him – but the Lord Protector still needs him.

He settles for hauling the man to his feet, forcing his upper body over the railing and holding him back from falling by the front of his collar. Martin's a big man, but he's limp as a kitten after the poison and throwing up his insides, shuddering as the wind sings.

‘You should have died today,’ Corvo says quietly. ‘Instead, you're going to live, and you'll be Emily's man to the marrow of your bones or I'll find you. If you're thinking how easy it is to slip poison into a cup, rest assured that there's worse than me loyal to Emily, and he will _know_. Understood?’

Something between a cough and a laugh brings blood-flecked spittle to the High Overseer's lips, and Corvo pulls him back, sits him with his back against the railings and crouches down opposite him. Martin's voice doesn't work, but his lips move, and Corvo learned long ago to listen to the shapes made rather than the words voiced. _Understood_. That will do for now.

‘You'll tell the men to stand down if need be,’ he orders. ‘You'll return to Holger Square and divert the music box patrols from Dunwall Tower – and not to Rudshore,’ he adds, and sees Martin's eyes widen and his lips form the name.

The Overseer coughs, opens his mouth. Blood bubbles when he speaks, and after a few false starts his voice is so hoarse that it's barely audible. ‘And if I denounce you as a heretic when I get back to Holger Square?’ he asks. Even a sentence appears to be too much; he descends into a coughing fit as soon as he's done, spattering blood over the walkway and making a reply impossible.

Corvo grimaces as he waits for it to pass. He remembers the pain in his throat when he woke up, even after the red vial that Daud's men had left him with. Havelock’s poison burns the throat as it goes down (just like the rotgut they were drinking in remembrance of Havelock's navy days) and forcing Martin to heave it all up can only have made the pain worse. Yet when Martin finally stops coughing, he raises his head, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘A man wants to know where he stands, after all,’ the Overseer croaks.

Corvo shrugs, and taps the bonecharm through Martin’s coat. ‘That won’t always protect you, but I prefer not to kill people anyway,’ he says, and adds, ‘You know, I saw Campbell in the Flooded District yesterday. His eyes matched his coat.’

Martin lowers his head to the bonecharm and looks as if he's going to be sick again, but he nods slowly. ‘Emily's to the marrow,’ he agrees quietly, and Corvo pulls him to his feet, then hesitates. It's a long way to the elevator, and Martin can barely support his own weight.

‘Close your eyes,’ Corvo says. Suspicion flickers in Martin's face, but Corvo clenches his left fist out of habit as he figures out what path he's taking, and when the Mark begins to glow yellow-green-blue through his glove, the Overseer does as he’s told.

The world disintegrates, and he hears the whalesong and the hiss of the Void in the split second before it reforms again, now at the door to the glasshouse. He opens it, and Emily looks up from a book and stands, smoothing her breeches. ‘Ready?’ he asks her.

‘Ready,’ she says, and he blinks towards the stairs.

 

Emily stands beside him in the elevator, with the sunset red on her grubby white suit. She's thin from refusing to eat during her imprisonment at the Golden Cat, and her red ribbon is fraying into the black of her hair, and he wants to take her home and hide her and stand by her door day and night so that no one can ever hurt her again. He knows that he can't, though, so he has his hand on her shoulder as the elevator rattles downwards and his pistol ready just in case.

When the elevator reaches the rock he kneels in front of her, straightening her collar. ‘Will it be safe?’ she asks.

‘We'll make it safe,’ he replies.

He hauls Martin to his feet, staggering slightly as he takes the man's weight, and Emily looks up at him, then to the door. ‘You'll need to go first,’ he tells her, knowing that she'll understand why. ‘Remember, there's nothing wrong. You're the Empress. You have every right to be here. If you hear shouting or shots, duck behind the mechanism and I'll take it from there.’

She nods, swallows hard, and leaves the elevator. ‘I can't see anyone,’ she says quietly.

‘Look up and right,’ he tells her. ‘A girder three levels up, right beside the wall.’

A long pause, then, ‘I think there's someone lying down up there. They're not moving.’

He raises his left hand to his mouth briefly, touches his lips to the leather over the Mark. It's become habit, although if he's honest he'd be surprised if his patron has anything to do with his luck, good or bad. He'll have to shake that habit when he's back at the Tower. ‘Come on,’ he tells Martin, and the weight on his shoulders lessens slightly as Martin makes an attempt to be less useless.

They leave the elevator slowly, because the short passageway is only really designed for one person at a time. Emily's waiting for them, although as they set foot on the tower floor she glances upwards, at the red sleeve dangling from the girder, then back at him. Corvo's half-expecting a lecture about not knocking out her watchmen, but she doesn't say anything.

There isn't anyone else here. There was only one man guarding the elevator anyway. It'll be further down the tower that men are starting to wake up, to figure out what's happened. He needs to work out what to say; the man in the mask has powers that he can't admit to as Lord Protector, and he knows that Burrows put two and two together. The man's never been pleasant, but he's not lacking in intelligence.

He lowers Martin to lean against the wall, rolls his shoulders as he stands and checks the layout. There; there. He's faster at blinking now, although not as fast as some of Daud's. But it's only been a couple of months, he tells himself as he kneels down beside the guardsman. He'll get faster. He'll have to; he left Daud alive.

Slinging the guardsman over his shoulders makes blinking that much more exciting as the Void pushes back on the extra unconscious mass that isn't him, that has no right to travel through his patron's space, so he jumps from the girder instead, the Mark flaring in the second that his legs should be breaking.

Emily looks puzzled as he lays the unconscious man out on the flooring, but he ignores her. He knows that men he's left behind die sometimes, from rats or weepers or just from falling; it's not entirely possible to leave someone unconscious and not in danger in this city. That doesn't mean he has to leave all of them. He blinks back up again, looks through the gaps in the metal sheeting, and an alarm goes off just as he lands back beside Emily. Then another, and another, until the fortress is ringing with them and with the shouts of men finding that they are not as secure as they thought they were.

There's a click behind them and the ratlights are on, illuminating the bridge. He looks back, wary, to see Martin half-hanging off the switch. Emily gets the plan before he does; she reaches up to take his hand, and leads him out onto the bridge.


	2. Martin: The Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck Corvo Attano and his fucking mercy; he could have just left a body to die in peace.

The Void is both darkened and lit by shifting purple shadows that scatter when he catches them out of the corner of his eye, and Martin can hear voices in the back of his head, muttering, chattering, whispering, and wonders if he’s dead or dreaming or both. He’s sitting on what feels like solid rock, a brick wall behind him, but both end within a few feet, cut off jagged by the dark. Beyond the rock there are glimpses of other islands, shattered moments with figures whose features twist like smoke, indecipherable.

He closes his eyes, and forces himself to speak. _‘Restrict the Wandering Gaze that looks hither and yonder for some flashing thing that easily catches a man's fancy in one moment, but brings calamity in the next. For the eyes are never tired of seeing, nor are they quick to spot illusion. A man whose gaze is corrupted is like_ –’ Something catches in his ruined throat and he doubles up, coughing blood onto his hands, onto the bare rock. So much blood. Men he’s seen coughing up this much blood (and there have been so many of them) have never survived. This is a fever dream, then, as the attenuated poison spreads slowly through his body.

Fuck Corvo Attano and his fucking mercy; he could have just left a body to die in peace.

‘ _... is like a_ _warped mirror that has traded beauty for ugliness and ugliness for beauty_.’

The words come from the dark in front of him, in a young man’s voice which curls lovingly around the syllables of the First Stricture, and Martin hacks up more blood and wonders if the Outsider comes to say goodbye in person to every High Overseer. He should. Martin’s read the writings of every one of them since the Abbey was founded, and there wasn’t a man among them who didn’t think more on the Outsider than on his own soul, who didn’t haul the creature further out of the dark between Gristol’s crumbling bones with his every waking breath. Never mind Daud and his gang of half-rate heretics; the Abbey’s the most fervent nest of worshippers the Outsider has, all that fear and shame and anger swirling together in a miasma of awe any god would envy. After all, why would a creature like the Leviathan want worshippers who love him?

The voice comes again, and this time it’s fire licking at the books that Martin’s made his faith, it’s rot and damp seeping into the foundations of the Abbey. ‘ _Instead, fix your eyes to what is edifying and to what is pure, and then you will be able to recognize the profane monuments of the Outsider.’_

Most Overseers he knows would be cowering, hearing the Strictures spoken by the very creature they hold back, but Martin came to the faith as an adult and he knows words can be spoken by anyone with the balls to speak them; Void knows he’s used that to his advantage often enough. He gathers the blood in his throat and spits on the ground beside him. ‘And the Second, brother?’ he manages, as if he’s guiding a novice through his lessons. Speaking hurts, but oh, the chance to maybe rile the Leviathan is worth it.

The laughter that comes back to him is soft and seems genuinely amused. Martin raises his head, and for the second time in his life meets the fathomless black eyes of the Outsider.

The young man’s arms are folded, and his flawless face is curious - exactly as Martin remembers him. His form hasn’t aged a bit in fifteen years, and he’s not dropped that unsettling habit of floating in midair either.

‘The answer’s still no,’ Martin says, before the creature can speak.

Something dances deep in the dark of the Outsider’s eyes. ‘ _Restrict the lying tongue that is like a spark in a man's mouth_ ,’ he drawls.

Martin’s response to that is a profane salute with a hand covered in blood, which brings that deceptively fond laughter again. ‘My dear, dear Teague,’ the creature says lovingly. The Outsider’s the only person who calls him Teague since his ma died, all those years ago back home, and doesn’t Martin know that’s the very point of it. ‘Oh, you had such potential, with your lying tongue and your roving feet, and that beautiful errant mind, and even now you do your best not to see wonders for one glimpse of which men and women have offered up their still-beating hearts. Even without my Mark you have been so very, very interesting. Yet now, it seems, you’re the little Empress’s man, to the very marrow of those Morley bones. I wonder, Teague, when they cut out your heart will they find her name on it - or my Mark?’

Martin’s spine turns to ice. He wouldn’t have, surely. When they last met, the Outsider _asked_ if he wanted the Mark; said it wasn’t as interesting if there wasn’t a deal involved, and if there’s one thing the Leviathan seems to value, it’s distractions from the endlessness of the Void. Martin, bloody and half-dead from a stupid deal with stupid people gone stupidly wrong (and oh now isn’t _that_ a familiar feeling) laughed and said he could fight - and find - his own fucking battles, and to his everlasting bemusement, the Outsider let him go. But what if he hadn’t, if all these years Martin’s been deceiving himself and he’s had the black-eyed bastard’s Mark on his heart all along?

But he remembers the racket of the music boxes Sokolov came up with, their discordant whines that are irritating but nothing more. He’s seen Daud’s little assassins cower when that handle’s turned; he’s listened to more than one of them describe the nausea and the tightening of the air around them, with voices that shiver and break and turn to whimpers and then to screams as the questions are asked. No, he’s fairly sure they aren’t faking it, and he remembers Corvo muttering darkly about damn music boxes so it’s not just the indirectly Marked who feel it. Which means that he’s safe.

He makes the mistake of swallowing less than carefully, and suddenly there are shards of glass in his throat and he can't help coughing and it _hurts_. The Outsider is watching him, waiting for him to ask. Well, the Outsider can go fuck his own pretty little arse.

‘Corvo Attano’s a good man, more fool him,’ Martin rasps. ‘He doesn’t deserve the shit you’ve put him through, and nor does Dunwall. And since we both know there’s nothing floats my boat more than you not getting what you want, I’ll be making sure he doesn’t make a mess of the little Empress’s reign before she comes of age.’

Once the sentence is out of his mouth he wonders if that was what he meant to say. Or if that was what the Outsider meant him to say, because the young man with the black eyes is _smiling_ , and it’s a sight that Martin has never seen before and never, ever wants to see again.

‘Well, you’ve made your position clear,’ the Outsider says, that smile in his voice now, and suddenly he’s right beside Martin, kneeling in a cloud of shadow and blood, and he reaches out and _in_ to Martin’s chest with his left hand, cups the Overseer’s jaw with his right and pulls him so close that Martin can see the pinpoints of stars in the very depths of those black, black eyes.

‘Just remember this whilst floating your little boat, dear Teague - there are creatures in the deeps below you that won't hesitate to swallow you whole.’

The Leviathan’s hand wrenches out of Martin’s coat, and he catches a glimpse of a fistful of writhing shadows before the Void dissolves around him.

 

He wakes safe, alive and unmarked in his rooms in Holger Square, which is ...unexpected, if not wholly unwelcome. He takes an experimental breath, and yes, there are needles stabbing his insides from his gullet to his gut, and yes, his mouth tastes of blood and that sticky sensation might be more of it welling in his throat, but he doesn’t actually feel as if he's dying anymore.

Well, well. For someone who claims that he doesn't play the game, the black-eyed bastard doesn't seem to have a problem with stacking the deck.

Martin stretches in the wide bed (unnecessarily wide for the High Overseer; he'll have to get that rectified along with some of Campbell's more obvious indiscretions) and allows himself to smile in the dull light leaking through the curtains. He can hear the familiar sounds of the Office around him: novices drilling outside, Strictures drifting from the library, hounds growling as they're thrown their meat, and over it all the gulls screeching in from the river.

He'd given Windham orders last night, when he'd stumbled from the iron carriage which the Lord Protector (or should he say the Lord Regent now?) had so kindly provided for him, to leave him well alone until the Royal Physician arrived. Which, knowing Sokolov, will be long past midday if at all. So Martin's been left to sleep, to dream of the very Void himself. The clock at his bedside tells him that his brothers have been awake for hours now, so he sits up to complete his morning ritual, more than a little late and with the Outsider's voice seeming to sound in the gaps where his own gives out.

' _Restrict the Wandering Gaze_...'

By the Third he's having to pause every other sentence; by the Fifth he knows he can't leave his room today, not with bloody lips and his voice grating like the last breaths of a plague victim. He finishes the Seventh with gritted teeth, and then curls up in agony and waits for the fire to pass.

Fuck Corvo fucking Attano, and twelve times more for good fucking measure.

When he can breathe again without knifing his insides, he staggers naked to the basin in the corner and washes his mouth out, careful not to swallow. The first spat mouthful seems to be mostly blood, and he rinses and spits until it runs clean, then washes his face and dries it on the less sodden parts of the coat he discarded last night. The towel in here is white and he wants as little blood visible as possible. Overseers are like the sharks he once watched on the long sea voyage from Morley; the first scent of blood a man gives them will see him ripped to pieces ( _creatures in the deeps below you_ , he remembers, and he decides that it could have been a warning as well as a threat). That was why he’d timed his arrival last night to coincide with the midnight Readings, and Windham had met him at the side gate. The young Overseer had said nothing about the coat ruined with seawater and blood, nothing about the way Martin had staggered as he'd left the coach, and if the man is wise and values his male lover's life and position in the Watch, nothing is what he'll continue to say about all of it.

Martin hauls himself back to the bed on shaking legs. Plans need to be made. Blackmail gets a man places, but it won't keep him in them for long if it's all he has, and Martin’s arsenal contains a lot more than Campbell's little black book of moronic decisions. He pulls a small notebook and a pencil from the nightstand and starts gathering his thoughts in his personal shorthand.

First and most important, Corvo needs to trust him, or at least to know that it's more beneficial for Martin not to betray him again. A gift might help – not some bauble, the Lord Protector is not a man who values useless things – but some information he needs, some action or useful advice. Martin will need to open communication channels between them, because Void knows that if there's one thing Corvo Attano doesn't like doing, it's talking. He has a few ideas there, things that might gain him advantages in other areas as well. Only fools and young men bother with actions that will only gain them a single benefit, and Martin's no longer the latter and does not intend to be the former.

Second, Martin needs to hedge his bets. Corvo's barely-veiled threats last night suggest that he's made some kind of agreement with the Knife of Dunwall. If the old assassin’s alive and has some kind of deal with Corvo, Martin might not be as indispensable or influential as he'd like to be. So he needs to find the legendary Daud, or at least find out what the man's plan is with regards to Corvo.

That is, if Corvo wasn't bluffing; finding Daud's corpse would be a much more welcome development. Martin's finding that supernatural assassins have the same effect on carefully laid plans as a kitten has on a ball of wool, apparently with the same inevitability.

Third, to find Corvo's more powerful enemies, and either bring them in out of the cold or ensure that the hypothermia sets in quickly. Preferably the former, given that Corvo has almost single-handedly erased or scared away most of Dunwall's political structure. Martin will have to work with what he has left. He turns to a new page and taps the end of his pencil on the cream paper, thinking. Of course, if Corvo fails dismally at restoring Dunwall, it will help Martin immensely to be on speaking terms with the man's enemies and likely replacements.

Corvo is a good man; Martin came to terms many years ago with the fact that he, Martin, is not.

The top of that list of enemies, of course, is Waverly Boyle, given that Havelock ordered Corvo to remove her sister. That Hiram’s lover had turned out to be Esma had rather relieved Martin; if Hiram had had any brains he would have courted Waverly, and Dunwall's political stage without Waverly would have been very dull indeed. Waverly, now.... The youngest Boyle sister is one of the most intelligent women – one of the most intelligent _people_ – he knows. Being on speaking terms with her wouldn’t have been an issue before, since they’ve known one another since Waverly’s father died.

Now, though, Martin is going to have to tell her that he knew what was going to happen and didn’t warn her. After all, she’ll find out eventually; she always does. The fact that he’d known Corvo’s target was Esma and not provided that information is unlikely to make any difference. He has no doubt that she knew it was Corvo in the mask that night. Given the gossip reported to him afterward by his attending (carefully chosen) Overseers, half the party had known who Attano was, and had been watching and whispering and giggling behind their hands as they waited to see what Jessamine's rabid hound would do without the leash he'd worn for twenty years.

Martin wishes he could have seen their faces when they'd realised that the popular and beautiful Esma was nowhere to be found, and almost wishes he could have told them that Corvo still had a leash and it was wound around another wrist. By all reports, the party had broken up fairly soon after Lydia had collapsed sobbing in the entryway.

Martin had had the guestbook removed and delivered to him, and had been amused and then concerned to see that Corvo had scratched his name beneath the others. That was when he'd realised their leash was starting to slip.

Their mistake, he maintained, had been in obtaining Emily too quickly. The girl hadn't honestly been in danger in the Golden Cat, and the Pendleton twins had been too lazy to move her away from their favourite whores. Havelock could have left her there and sent Corvo after Hiram, then swooped in with the City Watch before the twins had even had a chance to tuck their cocks back into their breeches. But no, the military man had bulled ahead as Martin has noticed military men often do, and the moment codependent Corvo had seen his little girl he'd latched onto her like a sodding puppy and there all their chances had gone, swirling down the drain like so much piss.

Martin saw Havelock shaking the powder into his glass, up there under the seething winds. He downed the stuff in one, and met Havelock's eyes as he sank back into his chair. The man at least had the decency to look ashamed, not that Martin cared at that point.

When the bell on the wall beside his bed rings, he realises that he has no idea how long he’s been staring at the blank page, lost in thought. That’ll be his warning that Sokolov’s on his way up. The notebook and pencil go away into the drawer, and he briefly considers whether to lie down and feign weakness before deciding that an inability to eat decent food will lead to weakness soon enough; no need to put the cart ahead of the horse. He picks up the book lying beside his bed – High Overseer Wallace’s The Great Trials, which he’s finding alarmingly informative, and which is making him wonder what Corvo can do beyond what he’s actually seen – and is sufficiently engrossed when the knock comes at his door.

‘The Royal Physician to see you, High Overseer,’ comes Overseer Berthold’s voice.

‘Come in, Sokolov; my thanks, brother,’ Martin calls, strong and loud enough to be heard through the door. He’s fairly sure the agony in his throat isn’t audible in his voice. He sets his jaw as the door opens, and nods as Berthold leaves. When the door shuts he closes his eyes, tenses his shoulders and puts all of his willpower into not screaming. His throat is being freshly scalded every moment, his chest feels like a bed of rusty iron spikes and _fuck Corvo fucking Attano._

There’s a clink as Sokolov sets something down by the bed. A few moments later a glass is being held to Martin’s lips. ‘Drink,’ the Tyvian says in that abrupt accent, and Martin forces himself to raise his hand to take the glass, to open his mouth, to swallow without choking. Whatever it is in the glass, it’s slimy and cool and numbs his throat as it goes down, and he understands why Sokolov is Royal Physician if he can produce this sort of thing with so little notice.

‘That particular poison was very fashionable in my homeland for a number of years,’ Sokolov notes as he washes out the glass at the basin. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, it causes drowsiness and numbs the tongue so that the victim is unable to act, all whilst inflicting significant damage on the internal organs. It’s not immensely easy to diagnose the damage, if I’m to be honest with you. How are you feeling today, High Overseer?’

_Vengeful_ , _but Attano got there first_. ‘Until a few moments ago, like someone had rammed a blunderbuss down my throat and pulled the trigger,’ he says easily, marvelling at the way he’s able to speak without pain. Although he’s noticing a certain texture in his throat that shouldn’t be there, that maybe speaks of burst blisters and tattered skin and other things he’d rather not think of. He wonders how long this miracle of Sokolov’s lasts. ‘Now? I could have a fairly bad case of indigestion.’

‘Well, hope it doesn’t turn into blinding agony and surgery to remove your liver,’ Sokolov replies conversationally, reminding Martin of why the man’s so welcome at parties. The dire pronouncement doesn’t shake him much, though; he remembers that fistful of shadow, and remains fairly convinced that whatever that had actually been, it had also been the Outsider’s way of telling him he’d chosen to remain interesting and therefore alive. Some day, Martin feels, he should start spending time with men who can have actual conversations.

Sokolov flicks on a tiny light and shines it into his eyes, getting so close that that coarse black beard is actually brushing against Martin’s cheek, and the Overseer grimaces but submits to it. He supposes that if he’s wrong about being cured, it would be good to know.

‘Speaking of ailing livers, have you heard of any parties being held after that one at the Boyle Manor?’ he asks. ‘I know the ladies concerned had been planning to head to the country, but hear they decided to stay after Esma … disappeared.’

‘Look up,’ Sokolov says, and Martin does so. The man’s breath stinks - aren’t physicians supposed to be clean? ‘The remaining Ladies Boyle are still in the city, but there are no more parties; even the aristocracy are scrambling like rats in a pail now, as the plague closes in. Look down.’

His games of politics feel suddenly useless as he looks down into Sokolov’s beard. What if it really is too late to save Dunwall, after all of their wrestling over Emily? ‘And are the two of you progressing with a cure?’ he asks.

The physician lets go of his jaw and draws back, putting his odd little light back in his bag. ‘Using what?’ he snaps. ‘In case you don’t recall, I was snatched from that most vital research to tell tales to your grand conspiracy. Joplin’s workshop would just about serve as a broom cupboard for my work. Certainly the man himself will be moderately useful as a sounding board for my ideas, but my laboratory on Kaldwin’s Bridge is now quarantined and inaccessible even to the Royal Physician, and Piero or no Piero, I cannot hope to imagine a cure for the Rat Plague in a _disused_ _boathouse_. High Overseer,’ he adds, apparently as an afterthought.

And oh, here’s Martin’s opening. ‘Has the Lord Protector not summoned you yet?’ he asks, somewhat surprised.

‘I’ve heard nothing from the man since Piero aided me in saving his skin at the Hound Pits,’ Sokolov grumbles.

Perfect. ‘Then you need a patron for that essential work, at least whilst Corvo is otherwise occupied,’ Martin concludes. ‘My Overseers will escort you and Joplin to Kaldwin’s Bridge and bring you all the supplies that you need.’

Sokolov’s rat nose twitches. ‘Paid for by the Abbey?’ he asks. Martin nods; it’s a low enough ransom for the Empire. ‘And I will need subjects,’ the man adds. ‘I had an arrangement with Coldridge, but the Warden is no longer responding to my messages.’

Martin grimaces, but he knew the man would ask, and he has a solution. No, it’s not a pretty one, but it’s the best he can do. ‘My brothers are rounding up plenty of heretics who have refused to leave buildings already condemned,’ he says. ‘Chances are good that you won’t even need to infect them. Just make sure they’re held safely, Sokolov - we can’t afford to lose you or Joplin, let alone all of your research.’

‘Of course not, of course not,’ Sokolov agrees hurriedly, and he looks as if he wants to leave and start right now, and starts closing his bag before Martin coughs gently. ‘Ah, yes,’ the physician mutters. ‘I shall leave some of the soothing elixir here, but I’m afraid that the effects will wear off within the hour, and taking it more than twice in a day will severely damage the lining of your stomach, perhaps permanently. I strongly suggest that you leave it for mealtimes, and do your best to sleep in between. A spectacular healer, sleep. Now, if you’d lie down, High Overseer, and let me know if anything hurts...’

As Martin submits to the man’s endless prodding and poking, his mind is already racing ahead to work over his newest challenges. After all, he’s now denied the Outsider and come away with his life and his sanity intact not once but twice; what would dare stand in his way?


	3. Corvo: Dunwall Tower

Corvo’s new greatcoat is wrong.

It’s not actually new, of course - it’s one of his old uniform coats, dug up from the storage room where Burrows had put all of his possessions - but after wearing the same one for three months, getting used to its torn and frayed hems and the smell of seawater that seemed to linger in it however furiously Lydia washed it, taking out a new one that is freshly pressed and smells faintly of mothballs feels absurdly like a betrayal. He can’t stop himself from slipping a hand inside the inner breast pocket even though he can _feel_ Jessamine’s heart beating beside his own; he’s not quite sure how it is that the coat still falls flat and still against his chest when he leaves it there, but he’s never wanted to ask Piero because he suspects the man will have no idea.

Piero may not even be able to see the Heart. Martin can't, Corvo knows that much. At the Hound Pits Corvo had taken to sitting on the roof of the barrel store, watching the Wrenhaven but mostly just listening to Jessamine's voice as he held her heart in his hand. Martin had taken him by surprise there once, and Corvo had thought for a few moments of just killing the man before he'd realised that Martin either didn't care or simply couldn't see.

He forces his mind back to now. He hasn't slept more than a couple of hours in days, and the new coat, the one without Jessamine's blood dried into the sleeves and Havelock's damp over the shoulders, is warm and heavy and shields him from the knifing dawn wind coming over the Wrenhaven. It's warm enough that even here, on his knees by the undeniable stone marker, he feels himself falling asleep.

He forces himself to stand. He doesn't have time for rest, not even now. The shadows of Burrows's fortress are long and dark, but Emily is asleep in her room with guardsmen all around her, and she is as safe as Corvo can make her without standing at her side as she sleeps (and even then there is only one of him; he needs two. Or more. He wonders if he can recruit like Daud.) After a day filled with orders and briefings, he’s spent most of the night in the library by the Imperial apartments, going through the reports on Burrows’ desk with Lady Chancellor White and Generals Turnbull and Tobias. The Academy estimates that half of Dunwall's population has fallen to the Plague or to starvation, a third in Whitecliff and Potterstead. There's nothing further north, where the Duke of Driscol is maintaining the strict quarantine that Jessamine ordered, but the reports say that Dunwall may not survive such a dramatic loss of population - and if Dunwall falls, the Empire won't outlast it for long.

Corvo pulls the coat tighter around himself, turns away from the sunrise over the Wrenhaven. Emily is safe, and will be crowned when arrangements can be made; the work that he’s doing now will secure Jessamine’s other legacy. The Tower, he’s fairly sure, now stands with Emily, but the city is barely standing at all, and it will be a monumental task to pull it back together even as the Plague continues to rage. Corvo suspects he’s far from the best person for this, but he’s low on options — and he doesn’t trust any of them. As he leaves the gazebo he pulls his gloves back on, stiff and stained with saltwater and oil as they are.

There are guardsmen posted to both entrances of the library beside Emily’s room, but the library itself is quiet. He quells the urge to go through to check on her, and instead asks a guardsman to bring General Tobias to him.

Fifteen minutes later, Tobias knocks on the glass door, bleary-eyed but uniformed. Corvo feels a momentary pang of guilt when he remembers that the man was up all night and hasn't slept since Burrows was arrested, but swallows it; they all know how to run on adrenaline and pigheadedness.

‘What can I do for you, Attano?’ the soldier asks.

‘Sit down, General,’ Corvo says, and Tobias does so. Corvo doesn’t; he wants to think, and he thinks best on his feet. ‘What would you do next?’ he asks.

Tobias doesn't answer immediately. He leans back in the chair, scratches his chin, furrows his brow in thought. Eventually he speaks, slowly and carefully. ‘Are you asking what I think Empress Jessamine would do? Or what I think Lady Emily should do?'

It’s a good question. ‘Let's say the latter,’ Corvo suggests, turning to pace the length of the room.

He can’t see Tobias’s face, but he’s trained himself to see these things without needing to. The man is nervous, his breathing slightly too fast and his voice trembling, although as he speaks he becomes more confident. Reasonable: Corvo knows that he's back to being an unknown quantity at the Tower, even with Emily's assertion of his innocence, and Tobias will suspect the identity of the masked felon even if he doesn't know for sure. After all, Corvo didn't appoint him to his position for stupidity.

'We should start by killing weepers on sight,’ Tobias is saying. ‘Throughout the city. The late Empress was very much against the Watch killing living citizens, but we had strict controls in the Estate District under Burrows, and they worked. Weepers terrify and infect the healthy, they endanger watchmen and they make it very difficult to keep rats down.’ He hesitates, looking to Corvo as he walks past, and Corvo nods. ‘The city needs to take responsibility for the survivors. Food and elixir rations are being assigned but they're not getting out – partly because it's difficult to find people when whole Districts are impassable because of rats and weepers, partly because guards are ambushed by gangs. So we need to gather the living together, not so close that if one gets the Plague they all do, but somewhere they can be protected and policed. I'd suggest evacuating a bank of the Wrenhaven and instituting a quarantine on the living side. Whenever citizens are transferred over, they're kept in isolation for a time until we're sure they're safe. Make sure the Watch are highly visible in that area, so there's no temptation to be reforming gangs. They'll need to know they should cover their mouths, keep as little skin exposed as possible - it's working fairly well for my men.'

That reminds Corvo of the Whalers’ masks and their heavy leather uniforms that expose nothing; of course Daud is protecting more than their identities. ‘And in the Tower?’ he asks.

'Rebuild the Royal Council,’ Tobias answers immediately. ‘You still have High Overseer Martin, Lady Chancellor White, General Campbell, the Royal Physician, myself and you – I don't know if you're planning on becoming Lord Regent or Emily's Lord Protector, but I'll not advise both. So you'll need a new Royal Spymaster, Admiral of the Fleet, High Judge, Speaker for Parliament, and either Lord Protector or Lord Regent. I'm aware that Lady Emily wouldn't normally choose a new Lord Protector for two years yet, but that would be because she'd have the Empress's around. I'd advise it.'

Corvo catches something in Tobias’s voice that he isn't saying, and he realises what it is a second after Jessamine’s heart skips a beat beside his. ‘You don't think I should continue as Lord Protector,’ he says, stopping and turning to face Tobias.

The general shakes his head. ‘I don't, Attano, for a number of reasons.'

'Go on,’ Corvo says, folding his arms.

Tobias swallows, but continues. ‘Traditionally a new Lord Protector is chosen for each heir, usually no more than ten years older than the heir. You’re nearing forty to Lady Emily's ten, Attano. I have no doubt that you can protect her now, but in twenty years? Standing as her Lord Protector will suggest to some that you don't expect her to live that long.

'Secondly, and more importantly, the Empire needs a Regent. Lady Emily is a resourceful and intelligent child, but no ten year old can rule an Empire. Unless you have another candidate in mind, you strike me as the only option – and as I said, you can't be Lord Protector as well.’ Tobias hesitates for a moment. ‘I suggest that the new Lord Protector and a few of your new Council appointees are Gristol born, if possible. With yourself being Serkonan, the High Overseer Morlish and the Royal Physician Tyvian, it will start to look as if the Lady Emily doesn't trust her own people.'

'If the Plague leaves enough alive,’ Corvo agrees. ‘Anything else?'

Tobias runs fingers over the stubble at the back of his head, and his eyes flick to Corvo's gloved left hand. ‘I've heard rumours I don't want to be able to substantiate,’ he says abruptly. ‘I’ve no doubt that Lady Emily would be dead if not for…certain interventions, but those interventions should remain as rumour if indeed there is any truth to them.’ He raises his head to meet Corvo's eyes, his heartbeat spiking. ‘I'm no Overseer and I'll not begrudge a man his choices, but if a man who worships the Outsider takes the Regency, word will get out. You're not likely to survive the reaction, not even if that snake in Holger Square decides your skin is worth his career.'

Corvo grimaces. ‘I don't _worship_ the creature,’ he murmurs, but he recalls the sensation of quiet awe on approaching a shrine, the pull on his mind when he hears runesong, the exultation when he not-wakes in the endless blue of the Void (and the moment of bone-deep fear when he doesn't, fear that he might lose all of that like Vera Moray). Tobias only watches him, finally shrugs a little.

'As I said, a man's faith is his own – but a Lord Regent's, or a Lord Protector's, is the Empress's, Corvo. The Isles won't tolerate an Empress who's the Outsider's, especially not when Dunwall's weak, and you know as well as I do what will happen if that blockade becomes a siege.'

Corvo holds up his hand. ‘I understand. The black-eyed bastard's well below the Empire in my list of priorities.'

Tobias looks calmly relieved, bows his head to acknowledge that Corvo has done as he suggested. ‘I'll let you know if I think of anything else, shall I?’ he says, with a faint hint of a smile. Corvo smiles, and stands to leave with him.

As his hand touches the door handle, pain flares suddenly in his head, the room turning dark and dizzy, and he has his hand on his sword hilt before Tobias knocks him aside, slamming open the door and yelling into the hall at the Overseer with his music box. Jessamine's heart is thudding beside Corvo’s, the general's voice unintelligible in the onset of that Void-damned music, and he slumps back against a bookcase, doing his best to shake off the sudden heaviness and helplessness and _dread_ as Tobias stalks out into the corridor.

It stops as suddenly as it began, and Corvo gulps in the abruptly bright air. The door from the hallway opens again, then closes swiftly as Tobias crosses to a table before coming to stand beside him.

'You might want to talk to the High Overseer about that problem of yours,’ Tobias says wryly, offering a glass of water. ‘I know the music’s awful, but you never used to be such a discerning listener. Is there nothing you can do about it?'

'How did you stop them?’ Corvo asks, taking the glass. He holds it to his lips but doesn't drink, watching the other man.

'Told ‘em I was in a meeting and they could fuck off and do band practice elsewhere,’ Tobias replies easily. ‘It's enough of a racket that it's a reasonable reaction as long as you're not reeling like you're about to throw up.'

Corvo wonders at that. ‘It is? I'd always assumed it sounded like normal music. I didn't ever hear them in Court.'

'And now you – what, you can't hear them?’ Tobias asks curiously. ‘Why all the issues, then?'

His stomach rebels at the thought of describing it, and he sips at the water to quiet it. ‘I … I feel it,’ he says. ‘It's. Well. Have you ever been strangled, or half-drowned? It's like that. Like all of the air's gone, and on top of that someone's got your head in a vice and they're tightening the screws.'

He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth. He's trusting the man too much. Listening to advice is one thing; talking about his own weaknesses is another entirely. The music is gone, and he has work to do. He moves to the table to put the glass down. Swears softly as he knocks it over, the water flooding into the soft carpeting.

‘Attano,’ Tobias says cautiously, behind him. ‘With respect – when did you last sleep?’

Three days ago. Four? He woke lying in a boat, with a Whaler checking his pulse… no, that wasn’t sleep, that was poison. He woke in the attic, his head full of plans of Dunwall Tower, and came downstairs to find that Emily had hidden from Callista. He's not even sure how long ago that was.

'You're no use to Lady Emily half-dead from exhaustion, Corvo,’ Tobias says bluntly when he doesn't reply. ‘Get some sleep.’

‘Not now,’ Corvo replies. There’s no time. ‘Dismissed, General.’

Once Tobias has gone the library is quiet again, and Corvo sits, pulls one of his reports about the new Tower defenses out of the pile on the table. Commander of the Tower Guard is the Lord Protector's role, but Burrows had decided against having a bodyguard - for which Corvo is grateful - and so the job had fallen to General Tobias. He has to trust the man for now, but he remembers reading that letter in his office cautioning about Maurice Sullivan, and Tobias’s scribbled reply _He is needed_. That had been one shrine Corvo had been all too ready to destroy, with its bloodstained silk and runes carved from bones that had never belonged to any whale; one human life he'd taken with only the slightest hesitation, and how the Outsider had mocked him for it. He pulls his fingers down the pale scar on his face, remembers the smell of burning meat and that leer around Sullivan’s rotting teeth. There will not be another Royal Interrogator.

He's roused from his thoughts by the door from Emily's room opening, and he sits up abruptly, wondering if he fell asleep after all. It doesn't feel like it.

Emily is dressed entirely in black, but as she closes the door behind her, Corvo wonders whether she chose the outfit herself. That's Serkonan lace at her collar, a Tyvian ironwork barrette in her hair, black Gristol pearls in her ears and on her necklace, and Morlish silver knot buttons on the severe cut of her jacket and breeches. Her lips are stained a soft pink, but she’s not wearing any other makeup that he can see: the picture of an Empress of the Isles in mourning. He stands, and it feels natural to bow, rather than sweeping her up in his arms as he usually does.

She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, ducks her head for a moment the way her mother used to. ‘Good morning, Corvo. My maid says that breakfast is waiting for us.’

Corvo’s not sure how to react – for the last twenty years he’s eaten before the Kaldwins and stood guard whilst they break their fast – but Emily raises an eyebrow as if daring him to say anything, and he concedes that this is an unusual situation, after all. She leads the way out of the library, thanking the guards standing there as if she’s been doing this all her life.

Corvo doesn’t realise he’s fallen into the old routine until Emily stops, puzzled, and looks over her shoulder at him following two steps behind her. She points imperiously to the floor beside her, so he walks with her instead of behind, and is relieved to hear one of the guards fall out and follow them.

Jessamine always initiated small talk between them; Corvo waited to be spoken to, has done since he left Serkonos, and it's a hard habit to break. He can’t work out what to say, what to ask to pass the time of day, even as he’s conscious of the long silence drawing out between himself and the young Empress as they take the stairs to the small private dining room and seat themselves. They’re served boiled eggs and bread that Corvo suspects is only edible because it’s been toasted, and he makes a mental note to check with the Steward about food stores. It feels awkward, sitting at this small round table with Emily beside him, and he catches her glancing at him from time to time as he eats.

Finally she speaks, and her voice is so small and quiet that he barely catches what she says, and when he does he wants to kick himself.

‘Mother was always better at starting conversations than me.’

He looks over to see her blinking furiously, and he doesn’t think — he pulls his chair close to hers and puts his arm around her shoulders, and she turns and buries her face in his coat. Corvo feels terribly guilty as he bows his head to hers and strokes her hair, realises that Emily is being reminded all over again that she has lost her mother exactly as he is being reminded that he has lost his … well. Friend? Lover? Empress? None of the words are big enough. As Emily twists clenched fists in his coat he realises that there are probably not big enough words for what she’s lost either, even if she certainly knows longer words than he does.

‘We’ll get better at it together,’ he says finally, when he’s sure that he can make it through the whole sentence. He lifts his head for a moment and looks at the guard, and is pleased to see that the man is pointedly looking elsewhere.

Eventually Emily sits back up, wiping her face with a napkin before returning to her breakfast. There is work to do today: first, she explains as she dips her toast into the last of her egg yolk, there is a speech to write. They finish breakfast with discussions of strategy and politics, and by the time Emily pushes her chair back to stand no one would be able to tell that she’s been crying. Corvo wonders for a moment whether he should be proud of her for that.

He falls in step beside her as she heads to the Council Room at the other side of the Tower. As they walk they're joined by Lady Chancellor White, a stack of folders in her arms and that sparkle in her eyes that says that she knows something that they don't. 

When Corvo first saw Granny Rags she'd reminded him of Adelle White, stick thin and almost a foot shorter than him, hair long gone to white, but where Granny hunches over and mutters to herself, Adelle stands ramrod straight, shoulders thrown back, and her voice can be audible rooms away, every syllable tinkling into place. Much to Corvo's surprise, she'd greeted him with a hug when they'd first arrived at the Tower, standing on tiptoe to deliver a quick kiss to his cheek and a soft ‘Well done, dear boy,’ into his ear.

She falls into step with them on Emily's other side, and launches straight in. ‘Lady Emily. The High Overseer's Office is still ignoring our messengers. They say the Morley boy has given them strict instructions not to disturb him.’

Emily glances up at Corvo for a moment, and he understands and covers for her. ‘You did see Martin the night before last, Ada? He may not even be conscious.’

Her glance tells him that she will be learning more, but she nods sharply. ‘I had wondered if that was all just for show, but I take it you will have checked. I do hope that he'll join us when he's feeling better; I do so enjoy his conversational artistry.’

‘I doubt he'll stay away.’ _Martin never could resist the chance to have his say_ , Corvo doesn't add. His hands are sweating suddenly in his gloves, and he wants to take them off but doesn't dare. Void, Martin had better be careful. One wrong word and Corvo will have to leave Emily by herself or burn, and there will be no loyalists to free him from Coldridge this time.

He takes a quiet comfort in knowing that if Martin does denounce him today, Daud will most likely kill the bastard before he can hurt Emily. They don't see eye to eye on many things, the Royal Protector and the Knife of Dunwall, but Emily's safety being of paramount importance to Dunwall seems to be something they can both get behind. At least until Daud and his Whalers leave the city. Corvo's given them two weeks before he returns to Rudshore, and then Void help both him and them if they've decided they're staying.

General Turnbull stands when Emily enters the Council Room, and beside him Jeremiah, the broadcast tower operator, bows his head.

The speechwriting meeting sounds to Corvo more like an argument between Jeremiah, Turnbull, White and Emily. Jeremiah knows what works on a broadcast, Turnbull knows what people need to be told, White knows what they _want_ to be told, and Emily adds in what she wants and needs to say. Corvo’s quite impressed that they manage to bring it down to only a two-minute broadcast in the end. There will be many more of these to come, but for now Emily simply needs to say that she's in command of Dunwall Tower, Burrows is awaiting trial, and she's sending help. _Wear a cloth mask over your face. Don't take unnecessary risks. Ration your food and your elixir. Await further instructions. We_ are _coming for you._

The Broadcast Control Tower is cold and eerily quiet despite the spring wind wailing high outside, and Emily is shivering a little, her lips moving as she silently rehearses her first announcement as Empress one last time. Corvo takes his coat off and drapes it around her shoulders, and she whispers her thanks up at him as she pulls it close, then goes back to her practice.

When he turns back to Jeremiah, he pretends not to notice the man's fond smile. He's still not entirely sure how to react to the fact that the Tower staff have apparently decided that he's here as Emily's only remaining parent rather than the closest she has to a Lord Protector.

He remembers her clinging to him this morning and concedes that perhaps he isn't entirely here just as her mother's Lord Protector. Empress or not, precocious or not, the child swamped in his greatcoat is still just a child with no parents.

She raises her head from her paper and takes a deep breath. ‘Right! Empress Emily _to the rescue_!’ And she raises an eyebrow at him as if daring him to say anything, exactly like her mother used to. Fortunately he's good at keeping a straight face. Jeremiah has a lot of experience dealing with Jessamine's nervous behaviour before broadcasting, and doesn't so much as bat an eyelid as he brings the receiver to her.

‘All right, Lady Emily. Going live in three ... two ... one.’

There are things that she doesn't say. It will take some time; Dunwall is the biggest city in the Empire and by Corvo’s estimate more than half of its area is lost to weepers and rats. About two thirds of the City Watch have disappeared from the roster, either dead or deserted, and Gristol has no standing army as most of its soldiers are the guards of nobles who fled the city in the first days of the Rat Plague, and those nobles who remain have been stubbornly resisting Burrows’ efforts to use their men to search the city for survivors. Emily has yet to reach out to them. Even when they do manage to gather everyone together, it'll be under martial law, nobles and the rich sharing housing with the working classes, and it will take their very best organisers to avoid a coup from the former or a revolution from the latter.

The Empress closes her speech with the same farewell her mother once used, and Jeremiah turns away for a moment before he flicks the switch to stop the audiograph writer and to inform the staff that the Tower is no longer recording. Emily sits back in her chair, looking suddenly pale and small in Corvo's coat. ‘What's next?’ she asks tiredly.

The day is swallowed by more meetings. In theory Corvo should be excused them, as a Royal Protector whose charge is dead; however, the rest of the Council currently consists of Turnbull, White, Tobias, Martin (who still hasn’t responded to the summons) and Sokolov (who hasn't attended a Council meeting since Jessamine's death), so Corvo has been asked to remain. He doesn't quite trust Turnbull, who was promoted only a couple of months before Corvo left for the Isles. Adelle, on the other hand, has been Lady Chancellor since before Jessamine took the throne, and even though she considers ruffling Corvo's hair to be an appropriate greeting (it wasn't when he was nineteen and it certainly isn't now), he knows that he can trust her, just as he did at the Boyle party. Turnbull, White and Tobias work together surprisingly well, and for that Corvo is grateful. He and Emily are mostly at the meetings to listen, although it turns out that his time spent wandering Dunwall’s rooftops is surprisingly useful; there are places now that the City Watch won’t go.

He’s trying to concentrate on a discussion about whether the Dead Counters are of any actual use when one of Tobias’s (his) men knocks and enters, crossing directly to Corvo. ‘An Overseer Berthold from Holger Square to see you, sir,’ the man says.

Ada tuts softly, no doubt vexed at Martin's decision to contact Corvo first, but Corvo excuses himself and goes to the small anteroom where they've left the Overseer. Berthold… The name is familiar. Ah, yes. An alleyway behind the Office of the High Overseer, rain lashing down and a woman's sobs, and this Overseer arguing to save his sister from being condemned as a witch by two of his Abbey brothers. Well. Martin's an industrious man; no doubt Campbell's little black book has been expanded to a couple of shelves by now.

The man looks like every other Overseer, snarling bronze mask and stiff shoulders, but as he stands to greet Corvo he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a small package. ‘My lord. The High Overseer sends his regards and apologies for his absence, and requested that I deliver a gift to honour your return to Dunwall Tower.’

Corvo opens the package and is impressed despite himself: the gloves inside are beautifully made of fine capeskin leather, with the Kaldwin swans stamped in gold on the cuffs. Martin's message is clear; not only does he offer his aid in concealing the Mark, but to have such well-made gloves available the day after Corvo returned to the Tower means that he had either expected it or at the least allowed for the eventuality.

‘Give Martin my thanks,’ he says. ‘How is he?’

‘The Royal Physician says he's making a miraculous recovery, given the circumstances,’ Berthold replies briskly. ‘He instructed me to remind you that he owes you his life, and also that the Abbey of the Everyman serves the Empire as the Lord Protector does. He has now made the schedule amendment that you discussed and hopes that the delay did not cause you any concern. Should you wish to contact him more discretely, myself and Overseer Windham will be available to carry messages securely.’

Another familiar name—there was a letter. So Martin _has_ been gathering up the ones who can be easily blackmailed. There's a quiet cough, and Corvo nods, lets the Overseer finish. ‘The High Overseer also instructed me to inform you that his window is always open,’ Berthold adds, and there's a momentary hesitation: he's not entirely sure that he's conveyed the message correctly. Corvo understands well enough.

He wonders what Martin means by "trusted". Do the two Overseers know about the Mark? That last instruction suggests that they might, but he can't take chances. It's difficult, with Overseers – he has had years of reading body language, but the mask makes it much more complex and Berthold gives no clues in his voice. But anyway, he wants to talk to Martin personally about that bone charm.

‘The High Overseer's allegiance to the Empire is appreciated, by myself and by the Lady Emily,’ he says formally. ‘We hope for his fast recovery, and he's welcome as one of the Royal Councillors to offer advice — particularly once he's actually here. I hope that he understands that Emily will sadly be too busy with matters of state to visit him at Holger Square.’ And in any case, for now Corvo refuses to let Emily go anywhere that he can't, and Holger Square is too dangerous. He's going to have to work that out; sooner or later the court and the Abbey will start to make the necessary connections, Martin's support or no.

Berthold inclines his head, Overseer to Lord Protector, and Corvo dismisses him and returns to the Council Room. Emily looks up with a bright smile as he enters, and he knows that look so he folds his arms and waits.

‘Corvo!’ she says delightedly, and he recognises what he thinks of as her Lady Emily voice, the one she uses when she wants something. ‘We were just saying that the current situation would be an appropriate opportunity to escalate my weapons training.’

His and Jessamine's hearts clench at the same time; he closes the door behind him and prepares himself to negotiate.


	4. Samuel: The Hound Pits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something of an inevitability to these things that shows through even when the black-eyed gentleman isn't around – and Samuel would bet that he wouldn't miss this for the world.

In the moment that Samuel shuts off the engine, the quiet washes in around him, thick and dark. It's not quite silence – between the waves’ lazy wash, the cries of water birds and the wind, there is no such thing as silence on the Wrenhaven – but it's settled like dust around the abandoned public house, so that even the rustle of rats in the reeds seems quieter here than it is in the Distillery District. The moon is sinking, just past full, but while to Samuel's eyes the Hound Pits is a sketch in shades of grey against the dark quarantine walls, there's light enough that he could step across to the landing stage without watching his footing, if he wanted. The Amaranth rocks gently on the lapping water, and he smooths a palm along her gunwale and they settle together, there in the near dark.

It's been an interesting few days. Samuel closes his eyes and leans back into the boat, letting the early hours wash over him. He could go inside and sleep, but he never needs much sleep these days, and in any case the water is as peaceful a resting place for him as it is for Wallace and Lydia, and for those watchmen who remained here when the others left. They will be busy, up in the Tower and down in the Square, preparing no doubt to rein in and ride the course of events to a different outcome.

Emily's speech today was a good start, he reckons. She made no promises she couldn't keep, no accusations she couldn't prove, and claimed no power she doesn't already have, which means she's well-advised at least. Perhaps with Corvo at her side and Joplin and Sokolov working in her labs, Dunwall has something closer to a chance. And with the streets muttering that Teague Martin is bedbound, that silver tongue near-silenced, those chances can surely only increase.

Samuel smiles, remembering Emily's nervous request that he stay at the Tower where it was safe, where Corvo could protect him, once he'd delivered Callista to her uncle. The little lady looks out for her people, or tries to, but Samuel knows where he's best suited and it's not under the roof of an Empress. He and his boat work best on the river.

He hears the footsteps he's been expecting, catlike on the tiled roof of the Hound Pits and on the pipes of the old canning factory next door, and wonders when they'll notice him, or whether they've been keeping watch for him. Dunwall's gangs don't bother the boatmen, not least because they know the value of a neutral river crossing when it's needed. This particular one is odd, though, as gangs go: where the Dead Eels and the Bottle Street Gang are messily savage, loud and colourful, the Whalers prefer clean violence, stealth and clothing as dark as the shadows they prefer to move in. And they're far, far more deadly than any other street gang, as they proved with the assassination of the Empress (contrary to Burrows’ assumptions, guardsmen have eyes and tongues, and use both). Samuel had wondered about the wisdom of leaving Corvo in Whaler territory after everything, but he's heard enough about the Knife of Dunwall to know that the man doesn't throw away a possible advantage when it comes within his reach.

That's why they're here now, after all. Samuel listens, and counts at least four of them moving around the rooftops, but he'll wager that there are others standing guard in higher places. He's seen them staking out an area before: they cover each other's backs, rarely go in without scouting the area first. A figure on the rooftops in that coiled crouch often means that a man's best course of action is to tie up quietly and out of the way and get his business done quickly, and the chances are good that he'll hear and see nothing he doesn't need to.

Soft bootsteps sound on the corrugated walkway that leads from the attic to the old bridge tower, then stop abruptly. Samuel's been seen, but he keeps his eyes closed, relaxed. He's no threat to them or their operations in Dunwall, and they know it. The boots continue after a few moments, and then there's the quiet click of picks in the lock of the tower. Gravel crunches briefly in the courtyard below as the door swings open. There's a sound on the very edge of hearing, soft and dry, and immediately afterwards another, closer – in the shadows at the side of the landing stage.

‘I took Ms Callista to her uncle,’ Samuel says, eyes still closed, and there's a soft intake of breath, hollowed by the filter of an industrial mask. ‘Sokolov and Joplin left a little past midday for Kaldwin's Bridge, with Overseers of all people. Willingly. Wallace and Ms Lydia were shot; I took them out to the bay. You know about the High Overseer, the Admiral and Lord Pendleton. I don't know about Ms Cecelia, poor woman. She wasn't here when I came in yesterday morning, and I couldn't find hide nor hair of her.’

The owner of the boots moves closer. ‘She got out,’ comes that flat, filtered voice. The accent's Gristol, Dunwall through and through, and he might have heard it before, or he might not. ‘Met Attano in the apartment across the street. Didn't he say anything?’

‘He wasn't in a state for talking when I saw him next. He gets like that, when he's angry enough, and I didn't think to ask where he'd been. Too focussed on where he was going.’

‘Did he tell you anything, before you took him to Kingsparrow?’

Samuel opens his eyes. The dark-coated figure up on the landing stages clenches a fist for half a moment before relaxing. The left, he notes. The Whaler is standing in the middle of the landing stage, and Samuel didn't miss the bootsteps on the wall above them; he nods to the crouching shape there, and doesn't worry too much about turning to see the one on the walkway above and behind him. The masks make them look not quite human in the dim light, which is no doubt the aim.

‘Now,’ he says gently, ‘why would you want to know that?’

The Whaler takes a couple of steps closer and sinks into a crouch so that his mask is on a level with Samuel's face, and cocks his head to one side. ‘I could reply in kind,’ he says; not a threat, but an observation. He spreads his arms wide, moving his hands away from the knives in his belt. Close up, his coat is a faded deep blue, not the black Samuel had thought. ‘I'm only asking, boatman. You left Attano where the river would bring him to us, at a time when we were both … not at our best. A man might want to know why that was, and what you got out of it.’

‘I was all out of hiding places for unconscious grown men,’ Samuel replies. ‘I knew there was one place where watchmen and Overseers wouldn't find him, so that was where I put him. He didn't say much when he came back, but I know Attano; if he caused trouble, he managed it without any harm done.’

‘Some of us might not survive the humiliation of him walking straight past us,’ the Whaler says, but the tone is wry, and the figure up on the wall shifts uncomfortably. ‘He left a note for Daud. Gave us two weeks before he comes back. We want to discuss it with him, that's all.’

‘But if you send a man into Dunwall Tower to deliver a message and Corvo catches him, you'll lose that man, and probably your two weeks,’ Samuel guesses.

The Whaler shrugs a shoulder. ‘Could be. We've got other ways of getting messages to people, but Attano's volatile and probably paranoid at this point. We can't afford to antagonise him.’ A pause, as if the man's weighing up what to say, then, ‘You know what I need to ask you, boatman.’

‘I know,’ Samuel agrees. ‘And _you_ know - if that accent carries true through the mask - that the boatmen don't carry messages, we carry people. Folks will shoot the ferryman less readily than they'll shoot the messenger.’

‘You carried Attano readily enough, and what was he but a message?’ the Whaler says, but even as he speaks he's holding up a fist in some kind of gesture to the others, who nod and start to move away. Samuel understands that he need not reply, and waits for the others to leave.

When they're alone except for the waterbirds and the hagfish, the Whaler pulls off his right glove and reaches for the straps of his mask.

‘Leave the red coat at Rudshore?’ Samuel asks lightly as the mask comes off.

The muddy-haired young man shakes his head, rubbing at his forehead where the industrial weave has left marks. ‘It's not quite that simple,’ he says, accent clearer now. ‘You know who I am, then.’

Samuel had known, but he'd not expected to see his face, and now he wonders if he's going to be allowed to leave this dock alive. The river and the streets know little about Thomas besides his first name, that he's taken over from Billie Lurk as Daud's second in command, and that the Whalers are sharper, more cautious with him at the helm than they were under reckless, vicious Lurk. No one outside the Whalers has ever seen his face that Samuel knows, and certainly none of the rumours mention how young he is. Samuel knows that he's an old man and everyone under fifty winters looks young to him, but Thomas can't be a day over twenty, maybe less.

And Samuel's been an old man for a long time, and he suspects where all this is going even if Thomas himself doesn't. There's something of an inevitability to these things that shows through even when the black-eyed gentleman isn't around – and Samuel would bet that _he_ wouldn't miss this for the world. But he listens anyway as Thomas explains his situation in exquisite and intense detail, because that's another thing that old men are good at, and when Thomas trails off, he understands that the boy wants him to make his decision for him.

He waits until he's sure Thomas isn't going to say anything else, and only then does he speak. ‘Well. What are you going to do about all this?’

There's a flicker of confusion, and then a frown. ‘Um,’ Thomas says, and Samuel's careful not to let his smile show. The Whaler has just outlined his situation with military precision, showing a grasp of Dunwall politics (both at the Tower and in the streets) that Samuel suspects would be the envy of no small number of the city's parliamentarians. It's not a bad thing, to have all of that knowledge and still not be sure of the right course of action, but by the sound of it, the boy will have to learn.

Still, nothing wrong with a few words to get him started.

‘From what I've seen and heard, the Lord Protector puts a higher price on actions than words, lad,’ he says. ‘Don't tell him – show him, and make yourself useful along the way.’

He can almost see the wheels turning in Thomas's head, and eventually the young man nods. ‘Thank you, boatman,’ he says.

He stands then, and pushes his hair back so that he can pull his mask on. Anonymity returned, the Whaler clenches his left fist, and Samuel's watching for the glow of the mark so he sees the wisps of yellow-green, light made smoke, before the man disappears with a sound like the world sucking in its breath. He reappears on top of the wall, and there's the roll of gravel as one of his fellows walks over to him. Samuel can dimly see the flicker of their hands, Thomas's ungloved right pale in the moonlight, and he understands now how they're able to communicate in silence.

The other Whaler nods, and Thomas looks back over to Samuel. ‘I have your messenger, boatman,’ he calls softly, and his companion vaults over the wall, landing braced with a crunch of broken bottles in the reeds. This one's shorter than Thomas, and he nods at Samuel as he pulls his too-big coat off, bundles it and hands it up. He's wearing street clothes underneath, and Samuel can't quite figure out why the cut looks wrong before the mask comes off. River lights glint off red hair and pale skin, and the Whaler he's looking at is suddenly Cecelia.

She doesn't look at him; she busies herself handing the mask up to Thomas, pulling her long trousers over the black leather boots, checking the tight bun she's looped her hair into. She's still wearing her gloves, Samuel notes. He moves over to the Amaranth's engine.

‘Where to, Ms?’ he asks as he checks the fuel gauge, and the reply isn't what he's expecting, but it's a good one all the same. Cecelia joins him on the boat's narrow bench, and the quiet disintegrates around the throaty roar of the engine.


	5. Corvo: Dunwall Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are pre-evacuation plans to be made, maps brimming with inaccurate numbers and scrawled notes, rosters made up of dead men and flooded streets, and outside the Tower there is a city drowning in its own filth, human and otherwise, and Corvo slumps against the wall and sinks to the thick carpet.

Corvo's head is hurting. No, that's not quite right, he thinks dully. His eyeballs feel drawn tight, his eyesockets ache down to the very bone, every sound makes him want to flinch, and every time his heart beats the blood burrows under the skin of his temples, pulsing and unwelcome. Even Jessamine’s heartbeat, steady and calm, triggers a slow pain with every thud.

‘— _need to see me, even if it's just for an hour, I have no right to stay here when_ —’

Emily’s voice, shrill with rage and indignation, hurts worst of all. She _shrieks_ when she’s really angry; this was usually the point at which Jessamine, jaw clenched and voice dangerously low, would haul her off to the imperial apartments for a talk that even Corvo wasn’t allowed to overhear except from the far side of a door. Emily would remain in her bedroom for a time after that, emerging quietly and apologising to whoever she’d shouted at. But Jessamine’s not here now, and General Tobias and Lady White are both looking to Corvo, Tobias undoubtedly unsure about the protocol for arguing with the Empress and White (he’s almost certain) testing to see how Corvo will handle this. Apparently it’s his to handle, never mind that he’s never so much as argued with a child since he was one himself. Right now he’d give a lot to know what it was Jessamine used to say to Emily behind that locked door, and more for someone to say it, but the Heart is no help, silent and calm.

‘— _would hope she'd be ashamed of me hiding in my room like some scared little child when I can_ —’

He gives up; his fist clenches at his side, and suddenly Emily’s voice is silenced, replaced by the soft whispers of the Void and the washed-out blurs of the room. In the sudden quiet Corvo can raise his hands to his head and press the heels of his palms to his temples, not that it does any good. At least he has space to think here, even if it’s only for ten heartbeats.

Emily's shouting because he’s told her she’s not allowed to leave the Tower, and she wants to show her subjects that she’s all right and more, that she isn’t scared. She’s making a good argument despite the yelling (she’s had the best tutors in the Empire, after all), but Corvo isn’t budging on this one. It's too dangerous; Dunwall is in a state of collapse, and Emily is such an easy target when Corvo isn't even sure how much of her guard he can trust. Surely a broadcast was enough, and the men that they'll be sending to pull survivors back to the Legal District?

He won't argue with her, he resolves as the colour bleeds back into the world, and he catches her eye, hears the falter in her voice before it starts up again.

‘ _Corvo, are you even_ listening _to me? How—_ ’

Corvo ignores his guilt and glances over to Tobias and White to dismiss them: as Empress, Emily can't allow herself to concede to him while she's being watched even if she wants to. White, the wonderful woman that she is, puts a hand firmly on the arm of the guards either side of the door and steers them out with her, and Tobias closes the doors behind them all as Corvo turns his attention back to Emily.

‘I promise to listen more carefully if you'll speak more quietly,’ he tells her, trusting that his deeper voice will carry through hers. It does, but instead of calming her it just makes her snap her mouth shut, flushing an angry red as she glares at him. Void take him, he has no idea how to speak to her.

‘I wouldn't have had to shout if the Lady Chancellor hadn't kept interrupting me,’ she hisses, folding her arms. ‘Just because she's older, doesn't mean she knows better!’

Jessamine had hated that habit in White as well, but Corvo knows by now that there's nothing to be done about it. From his observations, White often does know better, and anyway Tobias interrupts just as often, but he doubts Emily will appreciate him pointing that out right now, and he's not sure he can take another round of shouting. A flood of pain above his eyes echoes the sentiment.

‘We will talk to both her and General Tobias about that later,’ he says, trying to keep the anger and weariness out of his voice, ‘but right now we need to discuss this public appearance.’

‘I shouldn't send my people into danger unless I'm willing to at least be there, even if it's not out at the front,’ Emily says hotly. ‘I saw the stencils on the walls when we left the Cat – people are blaming Mother for everything that's happened, so I need to show them that the Kaldwins are their allies.’

‘And if you're killed in front of them? What do you think that will show them?’

‘I won't be,’ she retorts, frowning. ‘You'll protect me.’

Like he protected her mother. Corvo's eyes are hot and aching, and there's a tight dread in his stomach now, one which he's not sure he's hiding well as Emily's frown falters, turns into concern. She's about to speak when he turns away, moving to the window, and she silences herself.

Corvo leans against the polished sill, presses his forehead on the cold glass. It's just possible to see the Wrenhaven through Burrows’ iron cladding, the winter morning mists all but burned from its surface by the weak sunlight, and Corvo watches a whaling boat pass on its way out and wonders how much longer they'll be able to find their prey within the blockade. The reports he was reading last night (that had to be peeled from his cheek when he woke at the desk this morning) said that the numbers coming in from the slaughterhouses are declining, and not just because they lose workers every week to the Plague. The chill of the glass is soothing against his skin, and the ache in his head is almost receding.

‘It's going to be all right, Corvo.’ 

Emily's voice is quiet and it wavers, as if she's not sure whether she's telling him or asking him. Guilt blooms in Corvo's stomach at the thought that she has to reassure him, and he pushes himself away from the window and curls his mouth into something that should resemble a smile as he turns to her.

‘Of course I'll protect you,’ he says with a confidence he doesn't feel and which he isn't sure reaches his eyes – but Emily's expression turns into a tremulous smile, so it can't be that bad.

He moves over to the city map on the table, gestures her over. There are lines of shading and crosshatching all over it, marked with dates of abandoned guardposts and dead counts, but a few areas aren't too bad. ‘Trade District,’ he says. There had been gangs there, but according to the reports there was some kind of dispute a few weeks ago that left the area more or less empty – it's currently being scoured by guardsman in preparation for its new role as the safe area of the city. ‘Legal District.’ The lawyers weren't hit too hard, and the Hatters near there are too weak to put up resistance if he reinforces the guard posts, especially if Martin lends him some Overseers. A lot of ifs, but he's said it now; he moves on quickly. ‘Distillery District.’ Close enough to Holger Square that it should be fairly safe, and anyway Slackjaw owes him a favour. All three districts are easily accessed from the river, so he can minimise the dangers Emily might encounter during the journey. ‘Choose one, and I'll see what I can do.’

 

When he leaves the room, Adelle White is outside the door. Her questioning gaze over the top of her spectacles is a familiar one, although it was always aimed at Jessamine before. ‘General Tobias is waiting for you, Lord Protector. I'll walk with you,’ she informs him, and he falls into step beside her. He'd hoped Tobias would have other things to occupy him before their meeting, but a glance at the case clock at the end of the hallway tells him that he took too long with Emily.

‘As we arranged, messengers were sent to all of the noble families remaining in Dunwall, requesting that they confirm their support for the Kaldwin line,’ White says. ‘Perhaps half responded, and all of the more powerful families. A coup is unlikely as they'd rather let the Kaldwins take the risk; however, they're also wondering which of their representatives the Council will choose as Regent.’

Corvo raises an eyebrow at that, and White purses her lips, sighs as she takes in the set of his jaw.

‘Corvo, my dear. I know your patience is short with most of our nobility, but I also know that you listen. You don't need me to tell you what they're saying about you. What they've always said.’

She's right; he doesn't, and she obviously would rather not repeat it, but the ache in his head makes him belligerent. ‘Maybe I've forgotten,’ he says viciously. White takes a deep breath as if she's inhaling patience with air, and her eyes harden.

‘Your Serkonan blood and low birth make you unsuitable for any high position, which you proved by failing in both the procurement of aid from the Isles and the protection of Empress Jessamine,’ she says levelly. ‘Further, your reluctance to speak more than a few words at a time is indicative of a mental deficiency, supported by your violent tendencies and general lack of courtesy towards your betters. Those who believe that Emily is your daughter are concerned about your influence on her, both in blood and in manners, and those who don't are generally more certain that you are holding her against her will.’

It's all familiar, of course – much of it has had years to sink in, although most of the nobility were at least in the habit of holding their tongues when they were in the vicinity of the Tower or the Empress, and the new mutters are nothing he hasn't told himself a thousand times over since the day (life) that spat him out into a damp cell at Coldridge. When he'd first arrived at court as a young man he'd been puzzled by the chatter around the Tower about the Lady Jessamine's new dog, itself a gift from the Duke; he hadn't seen a dog on the voyage from Cullero with the Duke's men, but he'd held his tongue as was his habit, and he'd listened. He'd been embarrassingly naive back then, and it had taken a particularly pointed comment from Morgan Pendleton about Jessamine not needing suitors when she had a faithful mongrel to warm her bed (why, even a convenient door between her room and his kennel that could be left open) that had finally allowed him to understand.

He'd done nothing then, too dazed by the sheer careless contempt of it to react; years later when Pendleton had directed that contempt openly to Jessamine, it had been immensely satisfying to see the terror on the man's face as Corvo had lifted him bodily from his chair and carried him out of the room by his collar. Even nobles sometimes learned that there were consequences.

Corvo comes back to himself to see White looking at his clenched fists. She clears her throat delicately, meets his eyes. ‘Notably, my people have heard a few new... discussions... in the last couple of days. You saved Emily from a witch who would have killed her. Your left hand was terribly burned in a conflict with a drug-maddened tallboy, and must be wrapped day and night with poultices to sooth the pain. You brought the High Overseer back from the brink of death when he was betrayed and poisoned. In Coldridge you would say nothing to Master Sullivan except "You killed her". So far I have been unable to trace the source of these rumours, which leads me to suspect either Waverly Boyle or the Morley boy.’

‘Martin's messenger said he can barely speak,’ Corvo says doubtfully. He has ignored White's quick glance at his gloved hands; that rumour almost proves that it's Martin who's been busy, but there's no reason to betray that even to White. She only looks at him sideways anyway. Adelle White will think what she wants to think, and Corvo's not fool enough to believe he can change that.

‘Which leaves Waverley,’ she says after a moment, as if they haven't just agreed otherwise, as if they hadn't been discussing his unsuitability for the Regency. ‘You know, all of our other messengers returned with demands for an audience with Lady Emily? Only Waverley was content to wait to be summoned. In such an unstable situation, few would dare pass up the opportunity.’

Another two heartbeats (three of Jessamine's) and she sighs quietly as they enter a stretch of corridor with no guards. ‘Unless, that is, they had an alternative avenue open to them,’ she adds.

Only the pause of her footsteps on the carpet alerts Corvo that he's missed a cue. He looks back at her, trying to think through what she was saying as she folds her arms. Waverley has an alternative avenue. To ... an opportunity?

A pulse of pain washes suddenly over his temples, the headache returning full force, and he clenches his eyes shut as if he can force it out; that eases everything for no more than a heartbeat, and when he looks again White hasn't moved. An opportunity for Waverley. They'd been talking about the Regency.

‘Waverley wants to be Regent?’ he asks quietly, feeling his brow twist with how unlikely it sounds. Everyone always speaks of Waverley's skill as being subtle, quiet.

White's mouth thins in what Corvo suspects is irritation. He's missed something. He stops walking, closes his eyes, remembers Waverley's white mask and grey eyes watching him on the night that he gave her sister to Lord Brisby. His stomach turns thinking about it still, but the opportunity had presented itself and Esma had refused to listen to him when he'd tried to warn her. Waverley, he's almost sure, knew him that night, and now to look to Dunwall Tower and see him at Emily's right hand? No wonder she hasn't replied.

When he tries to explain it all to White, the words don't come out right, the pain in his head thickening his tongue, but her arms unfold, fists clenching briefly. ‘I see,’ she says. He can hear the disgust turning her voice.

‘I didn't – I couldn't kill her,’ he tries to explain, which isn't good enough and doesn't nearly cover it.

‘It might have been kinder than giving her to a man like Brisby,’ she replies, and then she sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose beneath her spectacles. ‘But it has been done now, so it serves no purpose to cry over it. We will endeavour to track him down once this is done; perhaps he will have left enough of her to recover. However, I perhaps understand now why the Ladies Boyle do not wish to seek an audience with Emily.’

 _Waverley sent her to find Lydia, afterwards,_ Jessamine whispers beneath Corvo's heart _. They never discovered the object of Lydia's frantic search, drawers emptied and dresser gutted, but she suspects that she should be glad it wasn't found._

‘Well,’ White is saying, oblivious to the murmurs. ‘If Waverley will not come to the Empress, the Empress must go to Waverley. We cannot afford her elsewhere.’ She meets Corvo's eyes, holds his gaze. It's an effort not to drop his eyes. ‘Emily will grant her an audience wherever she chooses. You will make it safe for both of them. I have no doubt that our good military leaders will put their resources at your command.’

For a moment she seems about to say something else, but then she thinks better of it; she turns, leaves him there with the blood at his brain beating in counterpoint to the hearts at his chest.

He needs to ask Emily to write to Waverley, to confirm the audience; she'll know what needs to be said. More than he does, at any rate. Unless White is wrong, or lying as Burrows did, in which case there could be another assassin waiting at the Boyle Manor. He should investigate, ask White to ... No, that's not right.

And he has a meeting with Tobias; he shouldn't keep the man waiting. There are pre-evacuation plans to be made, maps brimming with inaccurate numbers and scrawled notes, rosters made up of dead men and flooded streets, and outside the Tower there is a city drowning in its own filth, human and otherwise, and Corvo slumps against the wall and sinks to the thick carpet. Even the gentle sound of his boots shifting on the floor hurts his head; he closes his eyes and presses his hands over his ears, concentrating on the seams of the thin leather gloves where they touch his skin, on the precise lines of the stitching, on the fall of his hair over his forehead. He needs to get up. He can't be found like this, but no matter how tightly he screws his eyes shut, face buried in his knees, the tension in his skull won't move.

He doesn't know how much time has passed before the sound of his name filters through to him.

‘–right, Attano? Corvo?’

Boots hurrying towards him, too loud like the voice accompanying them. Tobias. A hand on his shoulder, gloved and heavy, and Corvo flinches away before he can catch himself. He's not in Coldridge anymore. Tobias moves back a little, and the suffocating air feels a little less close.

‘Corvo?’ he asks. ‘He mentioned that the after-effects might hit a man like this. Can you stand?’

He can, but he has no wish to, and he has no idea what Tobias is talking about. After-effects of what? ‘I'm all right,’ he lies into his knees. ‘Give me a moment.’

Tobias crouches down, and his concerned face comes into view. Corvo shifts his hands so that his fingers are laced behind his neck under the collar, the smooth leather brushing his throat, and raises his head, eyes narrowing against the sudden light of the corridor. Tobias offers his hand, and Corvo takes it and then feels everything lurch as he's pulled up. He stumbles, head heavy; Tobias catches him, holds him steady until he can stand.

‘I’ll walk with you to your rooms, and call someone to summon Sokolov,’ the general decides. There's none of the condescension that Corvo had expected, only mild worry which appears to be for his wellbeing. That's not something he's used to from Gristol men, and it unnerves him. He pushes himself away, drags his hair back from his face.

‘No need,’ he says, forcing lightness into his voice. ‘What after-effects were you talking about?’

Tobias frowns. ‘There was a letter from the High Overseer; he said that you were poisoned a few days ago, a smaller dose of what's keeping him bedbound. He said there might be disorientation, tiredness, maybe headaches.’

Martin doubtless didn't mention who'd poisoned him, Corvo thinks. Dizziness washes over him again, and he raises a palm against the wall to support himself, his glove sliding over the textures of the ornate wallpaper.

Tobias moves forward as if to steady him, but thinks better of it and steps away again. ‘Plans for evacuation are moving fast,’ the soldier says. ‘The High Overseer has lent us men, and we've been replaying the announcements in every District, but we'll start in the Legal District. We'll be sending tallboy patrols in first, to clear the way and make it safer for the men on the ground. We'll search every building we can get into for survivors, and they'll be quarantined at Kingsparrow before we move them on to the Trade District. We've got men working on Kingsparrow to make it secure and inhabitable, and volunteers are already starting to come in to clear up the Trade District. The messenger to the Academy returned to say that they'll send people with our patrols to help with identifying plaguebearers and advising our men on staying safe; Kaldwin's Bridge didn't respond, but Martin's man relayed that the Abbey is acting as Sokolov and Joplin's patron until further measures are put in place. The Lady Chancellor's people are inventorying what comes in from new arrivals and setting up a rationing system – food, equipment, weapons and valuables, where they're handed over.’

Corvo's too busy failing to process the flood of information to realise that Tobias has stopped talking at first, and when he does he looks up, frowning as he tries to make sense of it all.

‘That was our entire meeting,’ Tobias explains calmly. ‘You were also due to speak with Captain Curnow, whom I can advise about the new schedules and patrol routes. Lady Emily is attended by six of our best soldiers at all times, and will be going through well-wishing letters from the noble houses with Lady White until the evening meal. Now, Lord Protector, will you _please_ go and rest before you collapse?’

‘Eight at all times, and you as well when you can,’ Corvo demands, and only when Tobias nods does he allow himself to follow the man up to his rooms.

It's an effort of willpower to close the door on Tobias, on Dunwall, and Corvo mostly manages it by reminding himself that he can't remember when he last slept in a bed, and even then it was the ragged straw mattress in the attic of the Hound Pits. He crawls fully-clothed onto the wide, soft bed he remembers from a lifetime ago, and stares at the delicate gold and plaster traceries of the ceiling until his eyes drift closed.

 

There are nightmares, formless and hungry and lasting an eternity before he half-wakes in the Void, in soft-drifting violet and soul-searing blue wrapped around fragments of his bedroom ceiling. He can't move, can't speak, but it doesn't seem important anyway, and he dozes to the buzzing of bonesong and the distant lowing of whales. The blue wool coverlet of his bed has transformed beneath his fingers into slate-smooth silk, glinting a rich purple; he knows its colour even when he can't see it, in the way of true dreams. He hears nothing of the Outsider as he drifts into uninterrupted sleep, and the thought of fingertips over his Mark in the last moments of the dream is light and delicate, and crumbles to ash long before he wakes to lamplight.


	6. Thomas: The Flooded District

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas wonders again if he's doing the right thing, if this is all too much too soon – but he's running out of time, and he was out of options the moment Lord Attano left Daud's office.

‘Fuck off back inside, you madman,’ Roberts growls when Thomas lands beside her with a ceramic flask of tea looped into his belt, his boots almost slipping on the wet roof tiles.

He holds out the tin cup anyway, once he's regained his balance, and scans the murky waters of the street as he waits for her to take it. The rain has lifted the stench of rot (cloth, wood, corpses) from the drowned cobbles, and Thomas fancies he can see it curling in the emptiness between the rooftops. The sky above the sea of chimney stacks is white and grey with the promise of more rain, smudging to black where the Watch is burning the weepers in what remains of the abandoned Tailors’ District.

‘Seen nothing since I got here except rain, rats and your scrawny arse,’ Roberts says from behind him. She stands from her crouch to swipe the cup and he turns a smile on her as he uncorks the flask. Of course, she can't see it through the mask, but a smile never hurt anyone.

Threads of steam drift up from the flask as he pours for her, dark tea pooling in the bottom of the mug. They used to put milk in the flasks with it to soften the bitterness, but there hasn't been any milk for months except the tinned stuff, and that's for special occasions. There was honey for a while, from a beekeeper Rinaldo knew over by the Legal District. She's not there anymore. Rinaldo said she has family out near Whitecliff, so Thomas likes to think of her on a farm somewhere with a new hive, and is glad he won't recognise her face if he does see her in the streets below.

‘Where's Ivanov?’ he asks. They're supposed to stand watch in pairs now, after Attano.

Roberts gestures at the opposite roof. Thomas has to narrow his eyes before he can make out the shape huddled in a dull black oilskin at the base of a chimney stack. A soft whistle from Roberts prompts a quick wave from the depths of the damp fabric. Thomas sighs, but with the City Watch announcing their every move and the Overseers avoiding the District, maybe the Whalers deserve a bit of a break. He hands the flask to Roberts anyway, transversing before she has a chance to warn Ivanov.

The Void wraps around him in a moment of whispers and rustles of expensive cloth, bending light back in on itself in endless curves that fracture into the sound of the river lapping at the stonework beside his parents’ front door, and it clears from him in streams of black as he lands beside Ivanov, pivoting to kick at the man's shoulder height.

The Whaler rises in a waterfall of black oilskin, arms crossed to block. Thomas blinks away, satisfied, and feels his boots settle on the brick of the chimney stack above as the Void drifts in threads from his shoulders.

‘Just testing,’ he says lightly, and Ivanov twists, takes a few steps back so that they can see each other. The Tyvian is tall, lanky even under the bulk of the oilskin, and he stands with his hands loosely bunched into gloved fists at his sides as if he's expecting Thomas to take another shot.

‘One day your tests will get you thrown off rooftop, Thomas,’ he says, but it's not a threat – he's seen Thomas thrown off rooftops enough during training to know how rapidly the Void twists itself around his body as he transverses to a place of safety.

‘I brought tea, if you want it – it'll help keep you warm,’ Thomas offers. He stands, and suddenly the rooftops become the ground, the lines of the streets chasms, and he's taller than anyone or anything out here. He can see a couple of other dark shapes on watch, and the smoke of the slaughterhouses across the estuary is heavy in the sky. To the north there's a bright smudge which might be the sun or might just be a break in the stormclouds. Wind rises from the bay, and Thomas extends his Marked hand and tethers himself to the brickwork with a line of green light as a gust stirs his heavy coat.

Ivanov has moved back to the lea of his chimney stack. ‘Gristollers do not know when to stay inside and leave the outside to the cold and the wind,’ he grumbles. ‘When you are having to use dark powers to keep yourself from falling off chimney, that is when you should be staying inside. Tea is not the answer. Who are you looking for?’

‘The High Oracle,’ Thomas replies carelessly, although he can't help a grimace behind the mask. Ivanov grunts, accepting the non-answer; Thomas reminds himself not to check the clock tower again, aware that he's already given himself away. Well, he's not Daud's second because of his subtlety, as anyone who's played cards against him would attest. In fact, in light of Billie's departure, maybe his absolute inability to lie with a straight face is a point in his favour.

He wonders again if he's doing the right thing, if this is all too much too soon – but he's running out of time, and he was out of options the moment Lord Attano left Daud's office. Even so, he's not good at this, all of this sneaking around with this constant sick feeling in his stomach because he can't convince himself that he's doing the right thing, or that he doesn't have any other options. He has options – he could go to Daud and explain everything, and hope the man doesn't kill him; he could just leave, slipping out of the city past the barriers and guardposts that might as well be cobwebs for all that they'll hold him. Other Whalers have done the latter, and Daud's let them go, especially after Lord Attano's ultimatum. Thomas has told himself he wouldn't be one of them, but they only have ten days left before Attano said he'd come back with blade drawn, and he has to do _something_. The only answer he's come up with is to act first, to take the fight to Attano before he's slipping on the blood of his friends again.

It will have to do.

‘No tea, then?’ he asks Ivanov as he jumps down. The Tyvian is silent, and Thomas knows a glare hidden behind a mask when he sees one. He shrugs, turns away, and starts running.

The flat rooftop leads to sloping tiles, glinting black with rain; he measures every step as it lands, but these boots are for gripping slaughterhouse floors made slimy with blood and innards, and they rarely slip when he's paying attention. He jumps onto the ridged spine of the roof, drops to the exposed joists of its attic and follows them to the edge of the building, bursts through the Void onto the balcony opposite. He barely sees the room beyond; the window on the far side of it is open, and he jumps onto the ledge a storey below it, feeling twists of cold brace his body against the impact. A moment to catch his breath and he's running again, following the ledge around the building and jumping to another balcony, pulling himself up with strands of the Void in his hand. He leans over the opposite edge, looking through the collapsed building opposite to its neighbour, a warehouse with a bellying roof and tall, mostly shattered windows.

Thomas sees what he's looking for immediately: the tatter of faded green cloth billows in the wind, as if it's debris caught on the jagged spine of a window rather than the arranged signal that Cecelia's returned from her boat trip.

Of course, they've arranged to meet somewhere other than the warehouse, but Thomas allows himself a few moments to relax before he jumps down from the balcony and makes his way there. The tumbledown tenement room is one of the few easily accessible places without immediate threat from weepers or krusts, all entryways blocked by debris except the one that gapes onto the water, allowing a single boat to tie up – or a Whaler to land on the outstretched beams.

She's waiting inside, sitting on a battered desk that's the only furniture remaining in the room, strips of light crossing it where floorboards are missing from the room above. As he passes through the empty doorframe she looks up, waits for him to identify himself with the flick of fingers Daud assigned to him. Her hair is coming down from its tight bun, wisps of red beneath her cap, and her short jacket is damp. She looks tired, but everyone Thomas knows looks tired these days.

He reaches up to unbuckle his mask, pulls it off and feels the cold winter air rush onto his skin, grimaces at the stench of the dead and dying city. Cecelia smiles, shuffling along the desk to give him space, and he sits, dangling his legs over the side and kicking his heels on the heavy drawer fronts, his mask slung on its strap around his wrist.

‘What did she say?’ he asks. There aren't any Whalers scheduled to be patrolling near here, and no one else comes near Rudshore now except weepers, so they can talk freely without fear of anything getting back to Daud. And Thomas needs to hear this, needs to know he won't be risking Attano's blade through his heart for nothing.

‘Her people will be in place when we need them, and she'll have someone close to Corvo,’ Cecelia confirms, but he can hear the hesitation, and raises his eyebrows while he waits for the rest. He knows her well enough to be aware that he'll get what she has to say when she's ready to say it and not before. ‘She wants to meet with Daud,’ she explains after a moment, twisting her mouth. ‘She's not stupid, and she knows about Billie and a bit about Delilah – knows he never trusts this easily and he's not the type to go looking for allies even with his back against the wall. She suspects he's not involved, and she thinks we're taking too much of a gamble. I think she'd have gone straight to the Tower to put an end to the whole thing if I hadn't said that we'd help her find out what happened to Lady Esma.’

Thomas knows he doesn't even need to shake his head; Cecelia's aware that that option isn't an option at all. If Waverley won't help without speaking to Daud, then Waverley won't help.

Cecelia sighs, rubs the small of her back. ‘Maybe I should just talk to Corvo,’ she says. ‘He's not an unreasonable man, he'll listen to me, and I can introduce you to him – without the mask and the gear you're just another Dunwaller, anyway. There's really no need for this, Thomas, and if it doesn't work you're not just risking _your_ life.’

‘And if he doesn't listen to you, and decides you're out to kill him as well?’ Thomas demands. ‘You said he doesn't kill people, but all the rumours say he's half-mad with grief over Jessamine. You saw what he did to High Overseer Campbell, and everyone knows how the Pendleton brothers ended up. He could have just killed them, it would have been more merciful. No. If I don't take Lord Attano by surprise, we won't get another chance. He doesn't forgive and forget.’

They sit there in morose silence for a time, Thomas racking his brains for a solution as he stares at the layers of broken plaster and rotting wood that comprise the opposite wall. A pile of mulched-down ledgers in the corner shifts, and Thomas watches the rat emerge, skinny and filthy, and draws his legs up to cross them on the table, tapping Cecelia's thigh in case she hasn't seen it. He'll kill it if it comes too close - it's a juvenile, only the size of a wolfhound pup - but right now he can't be bothered. His earlier good mood has evaporated, leaving only a certainty that in ten days Corvo Attano is going to come and people are going to die. Thomas could probably get the Whalers out of the city, but none of those who are left are leaving Daud, and he's not going anywhere, and Thomas has a horrible suspicion that when Attano turns up, Daud is going to let himself be killed.

Thomas isn't going to let that happen, and if that means a confrontation with Attano then that's what he'll do.

‘Have you tried talking to Daud again?’ Cecelia asks in the uncomfortable silence.

‘He says there's nothing he can do. Says Dunwall isn't his problem anymore.’ The old assassin didn't even look up from the book he was reading when Thomas outlined his plan; he just rejected it flatly, the way he's rejected every idea Thomas and everyone else has come up with since Delilah.

The rat comes too close, and Thomas draws his long slim knife from his back and transverses, the Void barely touching him before his blade drives through the vermin's skull, pinning it to the floorboards. It twitches wildly and falls still, and Thomas stands from his crouch, wipes his knife on fur and sheathes it. He'll clean it properly later.

He feels wetness on his cheek and looks up through the ruined ceiling at the sky. ‘Rain's coming in again,’ he says, and glances back at Cecelia in her shirtsleeves and thin jacket. ‘Want to come back to the House?’ Commercial House, it used to be, the building where the Whalers sleep, eat and plan, but it's become just The House to most of them, as if it's some Legal District townhouse with oil lamps and Tyvian rugs rather than a rundown half-flooded ruin.

‘What are you going to do?’ Cecelia asks, and it's obvious she's not talking about avoiding the weather. Thomas pretends he hasn't heard, ducks his head into the leather warmth of his mask and blocks his ears with the sound of his gloved fingers fumbling at the straps. When he's finally got them sorted Cecelia has her arms folded across her chest, and he's facing that scowl that makes him feel like a child. ‘You'll need to figure it out sooner or later,’ she says. ‘Look, I can talk to Waverley again, maybe find some leads on Esma, or I can go and have a look around the Tower and see if there's a way to get in without–’

‘Later,’ Thomas tells her, refusing to think about it. ‘Come back with me, I bet you're staying in some rat's nest with half a roof and weepers in the next street.’

‘And your wolves’ den is any better?’ Cecelia retorts, but he can tell her heart's not in it. She pushes herself off the desk and heads to the door, frowning out at the ever-faster rain. ‘Fine,’ she says over her shoulder. ‘I'll come back with you, but if Rinaldo tries to talk me into taking the Mark again you'll be escorting me back to the Hound Pits. Give me a boost?’

He goes to the edge of the floor and wraps his arm around her worryingly thin waist, and she holds on to him, closing her eyes. He doesn't honestly know what would happen if they lost contact during the move through the Void – maybe nothing – but he doesn't want to try it, especially not with Cecelia, so he makes sure he's got a grip on her jacket before he starts back towards the House.

The rain is pelting down by the time they dash through the entry window above the street. A couple of masked Whalers look up from desks, hands going to guns and blades before they recognise Cecelia and return to writing reports. Thomas brushes the worst of the water off his coat and removes his mask, and the Whaler nearest jerks a thumb in the direction of Daud's office.

‘The old man wants to see you,’ he says, and that's Rinaldo telling him, which means it's important. Cecelia's rolling her eyes and heading in the direction of the common room, and Thomas shrugs apologetically at her. Rinaldo holds a hand up to stop her, though, and they both look at him. ‘Her too,’ he says, and Thomas knows his face has gone white so he grunts something and turns quickly away, pulling Cecelia with him.

Outsider's eyes, Daud knows.

He _knows_ and Thomas is probably going to die because he's not leaving the way Billie did and then Daud's going to die because he won't leave either and aren't they just idiots who deserve each other because didn't anyone who was sensible up and run when the Plague hit and they're going to _die_.

He's vaguely aware of Cecelia wrenching her sleeve from his grip, saying something. He doesn't really hear her until she steps in front of him and slams her hands into his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks, and he blinks at her. ‘Stop it,’ she tells him quietly.

Thomas doesn't trust himself to speak, so he doesn't. Cecelia rolls her eyes. ‘You've done what you thought –what you _think_ – is best,’ she says. ‘He wasn't going to help you, and he would have got you all killed by doing nothing.’

‘That was what Billie thought.’

She doesn't have an answer for that.

Thomas shrugs her hands off and pretends to check the knife on his back, then the other two in his belt, whilst he calms his heartbeat. When his chest feels loose enough to breathe again, he straightens his shoulders and nods, and Cecelia nods back approvingly.

The walk to Daud's office isn't long enough. When they pass the two standing in the hallway outside, masks on in readiness, Thomas is too busy looking for the red-clad shape on the other side of the frosted glass doors to acknowledge them. He glances back at Cecelia, who raises an eyebrow (from anyone else that would be an encouraging smile), and he knocks. There are footsteps on the other side, and Thomas watches Daud approach, schools his expression to calm.

The door opens, but Daud turns back into the room, a piece of paper in his other hand, before Thomas can see his face more than briefly. ‘Come in,’ the old assassin growls when they don't follow him, and they exchange looks before stepping over the threshold.

Daud crosses to a table with a building plan laid out on it, and Thomas frowns as he recognises the Office of the High Overseer. They haven't sent anyone in there since the Overseers came up with the music boxes: Daud refuses to send anyone into the path of those things intentionally. Thomas grits his jaw at the memory of them - that sound is blades scraping along every nerve, the whole world juddering and twisting grey. He's felt it twice now: once when the Overseers came to Rudshore (the memory brings the sharp taste of blood into his mouth) and once months before, which he remembers only as endless heartbeats curled in on himself on a low rooftop while the Overseers passed slowly below.

Thomas frowns at the thin stark lines of the plan, and sees that Daud has dropped an old penny onto what should be the High Overseer's quarters, if Teague Martin hasn't moved them. There's a drawing tacked to the shelving behind the table, pinholes in a cluster at the top from where they've moved it a dozen times, a middle-aged man with a broad jaw and sharp nose staring out from it: Martin himself. A new target, then, and all at once Thomas's hands itch to take out the file they have on Martin, to get messages to the couple of contacts remaining at Holger Square, to fill in their notes on the High Overseer's appointments.

It would be difficult, yes, but not impossible. Martin doesn't guard his back like he should, trusts too much in words to keep him safe – he's reduced the music box patrols to the areas adjoining Rudshore since Attano returned to the Tower, as if he thinks his alliance with the Lord Protector will keep others off his back. Holger Square has music boxes and dogs, but it also has myriad concealed entrances and predictable patrols.

‘If we stay high up we'll at least avoid the hounds,’ he says. ‘I still think it should be possible to get in through the main gate, and there's that ridiculous ledge outside Martin's room. If he's as weak as Attano was – Cecilia reckons Pendleton and Havelock used the same poison on him – it'll be a mercy to finish him off. Void knows how he's stayed alive this long anyway.’

Daud, Thomas suddenly realises, has been watching him with a pensive twist to his mouth that might almost be a smile, and when Thomas falls silent, remembering why he's been summoned, the old assassin smiles grimly. Thomas hasn't seen him smile in a long time. And he's clean-shaven as well, like he used to be all the time before Billie – before Billie. Hope and guilt flare together: maybe Daud doesn't know.

‘Martin's alive and well enough to be causing trouble,’ Daud says, and the almost-smile turns into a frown at the letter he's holding. He passes it wordlessly to Thomas.

It's scribbled on the back of an advertisement for jellied eels, cheap ink blotting on cheap paper. _M contacted archivist for sightings rumours reports Knife of Dunwall + Whalers. Folder needed 2 hands to carry._ _M continues to keep to his quarters._

Thomas frowns. Two hands to carry? They're not _that_ unsubtle. ‘Surely most of that will be rumours.’

‘The rest of it will be informants of ours they've found, what happened to our people disappeared into the Abbey and interrogation reports on others we found dead,’ Daud replies. ‘And it's all on the High Overseer's desk, maybe even in reach of the window. Not a chance we should be turning our noses up at. Think you can do it?’

‘Yes. I'll go tonight.’ It won't take long. He knows Holger Square inside out, as they all do in case they get caught. It should be easy as long as he's careful. Cecelia's folded her arms, but she won't say anything in front of Daud, and even without Waverley they still have time before they have to make their move.

Thomas leans over the map and checks the notes on patrols, already planning his movements. At least it's the winter months, which means it'll be dark by mid-afternoon. He should be able to go over the roof from the Cat, but he'll have to be careful of the guard box on the street outside the main gate and haven't they repaired the Wall of Light there by now? His gloved fingers tap absently on the table as he maps it all out in his head, building a picture of shadows and sharp eyes and street lights in his head.

When he next looks up, Cecelia and Daud are gone.


	7. Corvo: Dunwall Tower

‘You'll lose fingers that way,’ Corvo says as he taps Emily's outstretched left arm. She pulls her elbow in, nestles her wrist in the small of her back instead, her right arm still held out with the battered practice foil in it. ‘And if you're knocked and need to catch yourself?’ he asks.

He watches her mime the motion of being pushed as she thinks it through, and when she's done she drops her left hand loosely to her thigh, glances up at him. ‘Better,’ he tells her. ‘Now, bend your legs a little more. It'll lower your centre of balance, make it easier for you to move and harder for an opponent to move you.’

‘Master Petrov _always_ says I don't bend my legs enough,’ she grumbles, shifting her stance minutely.

For once, Corvo finds himself agreeing with her fencing master. He takes a gentle hold of Emily's shoulders, pulls her back and forward to show her how easily she's moved and taken off balance. ‘He's right. Now do it properly,’ he tells her, and she does so, and makes a surprised noise of realisation when the same exercise barely shifts her. She settles better into her stance, and when she sees him eyeing her right elbow she tucks it closer into her side, pulling the guard of her foil out to cover it.

He nods approvingly and crosses to the rack to retrieve a blade for himself, thankful that the nobility's sport of Tyvian fencing has provided Dunwall Tower with a veritable arsenal of lightweight foils that are perfect for a ten-year-old who won't have the time to spend hours in the yard building the muscle required for swordplay. The things would be useless in an actual fight, with their flexible rectangular blades and blunted tips, but he's only using them to teach Emily to think more about how she moves and uses the weapon she has.

He stands opposite her, balancing the thin grip in his hand, and drops into a half crouch so that his foil is on a height with hers. He's going to have to be careful to keep the tip of his blade away from her face. She's such a small target; he's not needed to even think about such delicate swordplay for months. Now, where to start... ‘Remember the basic guard positions?’ he asks. She nods, moves her arm, wrist and blade through the full nine of them; he smiles his approval as she returns to the first. ‘I’ll attack; you defend.’

It’s been a long time since Emily’s last lesson, and his blade slides past hers easily for the first dozen attacks, the blunted tip touching her coat where before she would have caught and parried at least half of them. Her brow creases in irritation and concentration and Corvo adjusts his speed, reminding himself that he doesn’t have to be quick here.

She catches the next, her wrist flicking in a perfect execution of a parry in _shestaya_ , and from there she flows into it, countering more and even daring a riposte occasionally (no matter that it bounces off his blade immediately, at least she’s trying). Corvo loses himself gladly in the back and forth, and after a time he begins to move gently with each attack, now backward, now forward. Emily follows, and he frowns a little at her clumsy footwork, tapping her shoe gently with the tip of his blade as she crosses her feet over and limits her reach.

‘You do that all the time,’ she points out, correcting herself and stepping back, foil lowered and breathing harsh.

‘I’ve been doing this for thirty years,’ he replies, amused. ‘And I have longer legs than you.’

He accepts her wordless request for a break and lowers his own weapon as well; being imprisoned for months hasn’t done either of them much good, but at least he’s been able to run around since then.

Emily scowls and folds her arms suddenly, foil dangling from her hidden right hand. ‘Don’t come to Holger Square this afternoon,’ she says.

Corvo freezes, and in his pocket Jessamine’s heart skips for a moment.

Emily notices the first. ‘It’s dangerous for you there,’ she adds doggedly. ‘You can’t trust Martin, not surrounded by all of his Overseers, and Ada says Lady Boyle only asked to meet us there because she doesn’t want you to be with me.’

The courtyard where they’re practising is wide and the nearest guardsmen are yards away, probably out of hearing range. Even so, Corvo puts a gloved finger to his lips. Emily huffs quietly. ‘All the more reason that I should be there,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about me; focus on your blade and footwork.’

‘But I _do_ worry about you, Corvo. Everyone’s protecting me, but who’s protecting you?’

‘I’ll protect myself,’ he tells her.

She scowls, telling him exactly what she thinks of that. He decides that their break is over, and lunges into an attack that she entirely fails to parry.

When they come in from the yard, both sweating despite the winter cold and Emily red in the face, Tobias is waiting in the small drawing room. Emily glances between the two of them, nods at Tobias. ‘General. If you’ll excuse me, my lords, I shall see you both after lunch.’

Tobias bows. ‘Lady Emily. Until then.’

He waits until her footsteps have faded before turning back to Corvo, frowning. ‘I ask you again, as an ally and a friend, Lord Attano – _please_ consider allowing me and a small squad to accompany Lady Emily to Holger Square in your stead.’

The same again. Corvo scowls, walking past him to the pitcher of water by the window and pouring himself a glass. He drinks the entire glass in one, thinking about what to say. The same question again, and he knows (hopes?) that everyone who has suggested this has his interests in mind but it just reminds him that none of this will ever be as simple as it was when he could look to Jessamine to make the decisions.

‘I can’t hide in the Tower forever,’ he says finally, leaving the glass on the side-table.

‘I’m not asking you to. Just until we know the High Overseer can be trusted.’ Tobias's eyes flick to Corvo’s gloves, the golden Kaldwin stamp on the cuffs. ‘Please, Corvo. I’ve seen how you react to those Void-damned music boxes – a couple of turns of one of those handles and it would all be over. Martin would have the perfect excuse to get rid of you, and with Lady Boyle as witness. We cannot afford to lose you, not now.’

He’s right. Outsider help him, Corvo _knows_ he’s right, has known it since the message arrived from Waverley to demand her meeting with Emily take place at Holger Square. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, searches for the beat of Jessamine’s heart beside his. It’s calming, quiet and gentle as it is. Almost as she was.

He forces himself back from that thought, opens his eyes. Tobias is watching him with concern.

‘Thank you for your advice,’ he says, ‘but I will be going with Emily.’ _Trusting Martin_ , he might as well have said, and Void knows that’s very obviously a terrible idea but he’s going to have to trust someone someday. Tobias is scowling, arms folded; his expression is familiar, and Corvo realises it’s reminding of himself on occasions when Jessamine took foolish risks. Well, those generally paid off, and when they didn’t Corvo could usually work around it.

Until that last one, of course.

 

The carriage pulls to a halt outside the huge iron railings, waiting for the guards to acknowledge one another. Emily’s looking out of the window at the towering building that is the Office of the High Overseer, big brown eyes wide; Corvo wonders if she’s searching for music boxes like he is. She picks up on everything so quickly now, asking questions left and right and learning just as much when she listens, so it wouldn’t surprise him. Besides, he’s almost all she has now, except for maybe Lady White and Callista, who’s taking up the post of Emily’s tutor. Emily’s earned the right to be protective, however back-to-front it may be.

He reaches out to tuck a curl of hair behind her ear, and she grimaces at him before looking hurriedly in the tiny mirror on the door and fixing another stray lock. ‘Burrows’ servants don’t know how to do my hair properly, it always comes loose,’ she murmurs. ‘I should have asked Tabby to teach me before she – before everything.’

‘I’m sure they’ll figure it out,’ Corvo says, remembering when Emily’s lady in waiting hadn’t returned after a visit to her sick father, the day before he’d left for Karnaca. He can’t help; anything other than a braid is a mystery to him, quick fingers and clawed hair ornaments and a twist he could never quite follow.

He realises he’s tapping his foot on the floor of the carriage and stills himself. Deep, slow breaths in time with her heartbeat.

There are voices outside as the gates start to creak open. Corvo stops his fists clenching, avoids looking at the questioning tilt of Emily’s head. There’s an Overseer at the carriage window and he calculates it automatically – he could kill the man before the door opens. He doesn’t.

Every man in the courtyard is wearing a mask and there are far more of them than Corvo was expecting. He hands Emily down from the carriage, takes a deep breath before he turns. A full squad, more than he could hope to defeat in broad daylight, all armed. _They have their orders_ , Jessamine whispers unhelpfully.

Inhale. Exhale. Emily is stepping forward with a polite smile, every inch the child Empress-in-waiting in her low heels and unrelieved black. Corvo folds his hands behind his back (doesn’t clasp them, that could waste precious time) and lets her deal with the greeting, watching her. She knows the forms, and if the Overseer’s giving Corvo a confused look then well, Corvo can’t see it behind the mask. He’s never claimed to be anything more than Lord Protector.

Holger Square’s granite and iron closes itself around them as they walk towards the main doors, and Corvo wonders if the accompanying Overseer would notice if he were to shift his eyes into the register that allows him to see past the thick walls. He’s tried it whilst looking into a mirror before and there don’t seem to be any tells in his eyes other than the pupil shrinking to a pinpoint, barely visible against the darkness of his irises – but still, it might be best not to take any chances. He follows Emily and the Overseer through the building, habit softening his tread on the marble floors and rich carpets. The shutters above the interior doors, he’s amused to see, have been closed, and most likely locked. He wonders how long it took Martin to figure out how easy a route that was for someone with Corvo’s abilities, even without a mission report.

The door to the High Overseer’s receiving room is ajar when their escort stops in front of it, and he recognises Waverley’s voice raised behind it.

‘– _needless_ risk, High Overseer, particularly–’ She stops abruptly, and their Overseer escort waits for a discreet second and then knocks.

‘High Overseer, Lady Boyle: Lady Emily Kaldwin and Lord Attano have arrived,’ he announces, pushing both doors open as he does so. Emily glances up at Corvo, and he nods and steps in front of her to enter the room first, scans from rafters to carpet.

Waverley’s grey eyes slide from his the moment they meet, a careful slight masked as courtesy to Emily by the incline of her neck; Martin’s not quite as successful at hiding the tremble of his legs as he stands, nor how heavily he leans on the slim cane, although Corvo suspects that others wouldn’t see the weakness.

‘Lady Emily, Lord Attano,’ Martin greets them as the other Overseer leaves. His voice is less carefully disguised than his body, hoarseness clearly audible. Corvo can’t help suspecting a double bluff, but if it is then it’s a good one; Martin’s face is pale and there are shadows beneath his eyes, and is that a cut on his face? It is, and he sees Corvo looking and raises his head, showing the long, shallow slash dark red in the light from the tall windows. Recent, then, and yet the Tower’s had no word about any kind of attack.

Tobias is right as always; Emily needs a new Spymaster, and she needs one soon.

‘High Overseer, Lady Waverley,’ Emily’s saying politely, advancing to one of the two chairs set between Martin and Waverley, far enough back that she’ll be able to see both of them. She sits in the one closer to Waverley, perching on the edge of it with her back ramrod straight as she gestures to Corvo to join them.

He doesn’t want to join them. He wants to walk the edges of the room, to check behind that screen that Martin hasn’t moved since Corvo was here last, to look under the table that’s been shifted to the wall to make space for the chairs. If he sits in that chair he’ll have his back to the door, and he’ll have to take part in conversation that he has nothing useful to contribute to whilst neglecting Emily’s safety.

Emily’s frowning slightly as she waits for him to move, and Waverley’s looking faintly amused in that composed manner of hers. He remembers her from before the Plague. They didn’t like each other then, either.

Martin clears his throat with a soft cough. ‘Perhaps Corvo would like to check our security, Emily?’ he murmurs, and Corvo looks to him in surprise as Emily nods understandingly, hands in her lap.

Corvo takes the time he’s been given, listening with half an ear as Emily and Waverley exchange mundane pleasantries, although he can’t help wondering what Martin hopes to gain by indulging him. The large doors behind the chairs are locked, and the mechanism’s old so he’ll hear it if anything changes; the ventilation shutters above it and the other set are closed. There’s nothing under the table, nothing behind the screen except Overseer vestments. He checks the window locks, pushes one open and leans out into the early afternoon, the salt-sticky wind coming off the river as the tide turns. Nothing to be done about the all-too-accessible ledges along the outside of the building, so he locks the window bolt into place and turns back to the room, leaning against the sill. From this angle Emily and Waverley have their backs to him as they discuss the rehabilitation of the Trade District in carefully neutral tones, but Martin’s chair is almost entirely facing him. The Overseer seems to realise he’s being watched; he glances up for a moment before returning to the conversation.

Corvo’s hand steals inside his pocket without any intervention from his brain, closes on the softness there as he looks at the former highwayman. Sometimes (and it’s rare) the fragment of Jessamine seems to understand what he needs to know. Other times, as in the courtyard, her comments seem merely observational. Although he doesn’t want to acknowledge it, even those times she seems to respond could well be coincidence – what was it Euhorn used to say of the Spymaster before Burrows, that odd Gristol maxim? “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day _.”_

Corvo shakes his head, turns it into scratching his neck. He will not think of Jessamine as something broken.

Beneath his fingers, the smooth flesh pulses gently. _He has caught a shark instead of the whale he hunted_ , her voice whispers, and then, swiftly, _Teague Martin has been in enough Morley taverns to know when the dice are weighted, but despite all of his eyes and ears the players hide their throws from him all too easily._ Corvo grimaces. None of that is any use.

He looks at the back of Waverley’s head, the straight fair hair in its severe cut. _Waverley Boyle’s suitors are all dead now, but this game of powerful men and their weaknesses is far more entertaining_ , comes the whisper.

Emily leans around her chair, raises an eyebrow at him. She learned that from her mother. ‘Sit down, Corvo,’ she tells him; he obeys, taking the chair between her and Martin. Waverley is watching him. He wonders what weaknesses she’s found so far, whether they’re ones he knows about already or whether he’s due a new series of deadly surprises.

Martin coughs, a wet scratching sound, and takes a drink from the glass beside him. He and Waverley share a quick look that Corvo can tell he was meant to see; Waverley nods once, slowly, giving permission or perhaps giving way. ‘Waverley’s brought some troubling news,’ Martin says. ‘You had a royal visit planned to the Trade District tomorrow at noon, is that correct?’

‘Who told you that?’ Corvo asks, levelling his voice carefully despite the bile rising in his throat. The Abbey must have a plant in the guardsmen – they were the ones charged with making sure the route was safe. No one else was told.

Waverley clears her throat and speaks to Emily and Martin, managing to avoid ever looking at Corvo. ‘I did. I was approached by a representative of the Knife of Dunwall. I was informed that he had been hired with the instruction to sever the Kaldwin line for good, but also to approach the nobility in order to lend credence to the event. I neither confirmed nor denied that I would be interested, and took this opportunity to contact Lady Emily somewhere that I hoped the Knife’s people would not be able to access.’

It doesn’t make sense. Corvo’s read Daud’s journal, knows that he’s saved Emily’s life once and perhaps more, and is fairly sure that such aching regret isn’t something the man would bother to feign in a private document. He’d been certain that Daud would avoid taking any further contracts, let alone on Emily, and the idea of him agreeing to approach the nobility for anything other than blackmail? It seems unlikely.

He frowns at Martin, aware that he’s told the Overseer that Daud is an ally of his. ‘Do you have proof of any of this?’

Martin touches a finger to the cut on his cheek. ‘There’s a young man in my cells with a distinctive street tattoo who was very well-informed, once I was able to get him to speak. I caught him last night breaking into my room; fortunately my Artificer had just delivered a smaller prototype of Sokolov’s music boxes, and I had it on hand.’ Corvo’s chest tightens at the thought. How small is Martin talking, is this something that can be hidden? Is there one in the room now? It must be one of the Whalers that he’s caught, but is it one who knows of the mark on Corvo’s hand? ‘He informed me of a plan to assassinate both Lady Emily and yourself, Attano; said that the Whalers had been hired on their… ah… earlier successes,’ Martin continues delicately.

‘I’d like to speak to him myself.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Attano. You may know that the Whalers possess certain… enhancements to their physical abilities? The man is chained in a windowless room, gagged and blindfolded, and we keep one of Sokolov’s devices outside at all times, activating it whenever the door is open. Even so, it is a risk, and not one I would gladly expose you to.’

Corvo knows perfectly well what Martin means: should they need to control their prisoner, the music boxes will affect Corvo as well, revealing him Marked and rendering him defenceless in one turn of the handle.

‘I hear the Sokolov devices are a most unpleasant experience for those who suffer mental abnormalities,’ Waverley says calmly, but under her genteel voice Corvo can hear the claws, the intimation that she knows his secret already. She’s intelligent enough to have connected the dots, but he’s damned if he’ll confirm it for her. ‘Lydia won’t have them in the manor; she says that if they failed to save Esma, what use are they?’ She addresses the rhetorical question to Martin, who smiles.

‘I had heard that your sister helped Sokolov develop them, actually,’ he says, reaching for his glass again and taking a sip. ‘He told me once that her sensitivity to sound and sensation was superb, barely matched by her other… natural advantages.’

Waverley doesn’t do anything so common as grimace, but her jaw tightens minutely. ‘How like the good doctor to remark on such things.’

Emily, recognising the hostility between them if not its source, clears her throat and looks to Corvo. ‘What do we do?’ she asks.

‘We cancel the visit,’ Corvo replies. He ignores the double thump of Jessamine’s heart. He will not take such risks with Emily as he took with her. ‘In the meantime, find out if Martin’s prisoner knows who hired the Whalers – no point eliminating them if we don’t know who sent them.’ He thinks of the witches he read about in Daud’s journal, wonders if there are other Marked in Dunwall who have reason to go after Emily with their own supernatural cadres. ‘Lady Waverley, do you remember anything about the representative sent to you? Did they give you anything we could use to identify their client? Have you arranged to meet with them again?’

Martin leans forward, begins to speak but coughs instead, the sound raw and tattered. He puts a dark red handkerchief to his lips, and when he pulls it away it’s wet. ‘Hold on a moment, Corvo,’ he manages. ‘You’re missing an opportunity here. Cancel the visit and whoever hired the Whalers will know you’re onto them, and maybe for the next attempt they won’t bother contacting anyone who might come straight to you. Why not continue as if all is well? Waverley can ask more questions, and perhaps we can find out who needs arresting. She’s also promised to have her house guard there to help augment the Tower soldiers. I’ll do my best with my prisoner, but we have to be careful with him; we’ve had Whalers kill themselves before during interrogation, and we still don’t know how they do it.’

An overheard conversation between Whalers about poison pins flashes into Corvo’s mind. He considers it, decides not to say anything. The Abbey doesn’t need his help, and the Whalers will be gone soon, although if Daud has changed his mind so dramatically in such a short space of time then perhaps Corvo should pay him another visit.

Except that that would mean leaving Emily unguarded, and perhaps that’s what the Whalers want. He raises a hand to his head, feeling another headache coming on. ‘I won’t put Emily in any more –’

‘I am _always_ in danger, Corvo!’ Emily interrupts.

He looks at her in surprise; they have agreed never to disagree in public. But then, he concedes, he’s already set her precedence by allowing her to greet the Overseers alone, so why should he be surprised when she overrules him? ‘I will visit the Trade District as planned tomorrow,’ she says, jaw tight, and he sees her relief when he bows his head in acceptance.

‘So he can be brought to heel,’ Waverley says, looking at Corvo speculatively. She turns her eyes to Martin then, as if to settle a bet, and Corvo tightens his hands on the arms of his chair to stop himself from responding to the obvious jibe (she has every right to be angry with him and besides they need her but _how dare she_ ), and in the haze of anger he barely realises that Emily has stood from her chair.

‘We will be returning to the Tower now,’ she says coolly. ‘Lady Boyle, our thanks for your warning. Anything you can learn regarding your co-conspirators would be appreciated, as would your house guard’s assistance in manning the route tomorrow; as the Lady Chancellor should have mentioned, we will be happy to help with locating your sister, although it may have to wait for now. High Overseer Martin, please do send information to Corvo if you make any progress with your prisoner.’

Martin and Waverley exchange a glance before they stand obediently, accepting Emily’s dismissal. She’s polite, but she gestures Corvo after her as soon as she can, leaving the other two in the receiving room, and she strides through the corridors of the Office as if they have personally offended her.

It’s not until they’re back in the carriage, the door safely closed, that she speaks.

‘I won’t have them talk about you like that,’ she says quietly, staring out of the window.

Corvo closes his eyes, leans back against the leather seat. ‘Your mother once said the same. She wasted a lot of time trying to force the same respect for me that the nobility held for Euhorn’s Lord Protector. And _that_ was back when I hadn’t failed in my duty.’

Emily’s small hand wavers across the seat, slides over his. She squeezes tightly, and after a surprised moment he squeezes back.

 _When you are near, my heart is at peace,_ Jessamine murmurs.

Emily turns from the window and smiles, the winter sun lighting up her face. ‘You said together,’ she reminds him. ‘That means side by side. We’ll keep each other safe.’


	8. Waverly: Holger Square

Once Emily’s left, clearly furious and with her tall shadow trailing behind her, Waverly counts to five before she turns from the door.

‘What in the Void does Lady White think she’s doing?’ she demands. ‘Sending a ten-year-old girl into a three-sided negotiation with only a bodyguard to advise her?’

Martin has already sunk back into his chair, eyes on the mantel clock. ‘She knows very well what she’s doing, as do you,’ he says, a ragged edge to his voice as Sokolov’s tonic begins to wear off. ‘She’s appealing to your better nature and sense of national responsibility by demonstrating that our incipient Empress, intelligent child that she is, is still just a child who will walk out of a negotiation in high dudgeon without even having discussed the matter at hand.’

‘Or, apparently, having realised that it was a negotiation at all,’ Waverly agrees, sighing.

She crosses to the hallway doors and pushes them open so that she can see over the grey square, watches Corvo and Emily walk through the beginning of the rain. Emily is striding ahead, small fists clenched at her sides, and Corvo follows meekly, as he always followed her mother. He always was too good at taking orders, and Waverly refuses to hold anyone else responsible for Esma’s disappearance – but the Empire needs Emily, and Emily needs _him_.

‘Has our Whaler friend _actually_ said anything?’ she asks over her shoulder.

Martin shakes his head. ‘Of course not. He’s been gagged since he was picked up, as you suggested. High Overseer Wallace has some interesting ideas regarding the Strictures and the powers of the Outsider; I convinced my men that it was a necessary restraint for a Marked heretic. He’ll be held unharmed until this is all over, and if all turns out as expected then he’ll miraculously escape, as we agreed.’ He pauses, flexing his jaw, and swallows with a wince. ‘If it comes out that we’ve lied to him, Corvo won’t hesitate to bury us both, perhaps literally. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘You wouldn’t have put yourself in the middle of it and risked being stabbed if I didn’t,’ Waverly reminds him, letting just a hint of irritation into her voice. Of course he’s nervous – he’s holding the man as a favour, and anyone with half a brain would be aware that if he’s been misinformed, the Knife of Dunwall could come seeking bloody vengeance before he has a chance to call it in.

Waverly knows that won’t happen, but Martin’s not foolish enough to take her word for it, not when he owes her so much even after this.

‘Attano will have no reason to be angry,’ she tells him.

She watches the iron carriage draw away from the gates, and hopes that she’s right. They’re taking a gamble, deceiving Attano like this, but with the revelation that _someone_ in the Tower wants Emily dead, and has not only access to her schedule but resources to hire the Whalers, neither of them want to take the chance of being a target.

‘Very well,’ Martin says. ‘Do you think Daud will give you the name of this mysterious conspirator who co-opted his man without his knowledge, or am I to be left in the dark about that as well?’ There’s a sharpness to his voice, rasping as it is.

She must not forget that friend or foe, he is dangerous.

‘I know as little as you. I can only assume that he wishes to handle this on his own terms.’

‘So he’ll tell us when it suits him.’ Martin grimaces, tips his head back to look at the ceiling as if he’ll find patience in the rafters. ‘Do you need to see this Whaler, assure Daud that he’s safe?’

Waverly sighs, sinking into a chair. She should go home, supervise the packing and the dust sheets. They have been given two days to evacuate, as if all the spoils of Empire that her father brought back for her mother so many years ago could ever be packed away safely in such a short time. Waverly would rather be here with Martin’s quicksilver mind and sharp tongue than watching her home being nailed into crates, even if that wonderful voice of his might be ruined forever.

Quite apart from that, she needs to hold up her end of this deal, and that does mean assuring that Martin’s prisoner is safe. She misses the first few years after her society debut, when the game was simply about favour and fortune, and the blood and blades were left to the streets.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Martin murmurs over the hiss of the fire.

‘They’d mean nothing to you,’ she tells him. He’s a Morley-born commoner, and whilst she’s not under any illusions that his birth affects his intelligence, she couldn’t begin to explain the gilded nostalgia of a Dunwall noblewoman to him without sounding like an idiot born with a silver spoon in each hand.

‘Try me.’

She closes her eyes, inhales softly for five heartbeats, feeling the warm air fill her lungs. The Office is noisy even with the windows closed; footsteps and voices everywhere, shouts from the yard outside, seagulls keening, the fire popping, Martin’s now-careful breathing.

When she opens her eyes and exhales, the Overseer’s watching her, dark eyes lidded as if he’s barely awake.

‘Yes, I should see him,’ she says, standing.

He lets her have the evasion, so in return she lets him take her arm on the stairway down to the yard, through the cold afternoon filled with the smells of salt and rust and dogs to what looks as if it might have been a workshop before the Plague, windows boarded and covered and door firmly bolted. There are Overseers surrounding the building and music boxes placed at intervals around it, and when Martin gestures at the two men by the door, one starts cranking a handle whilst the other opens the latch. The noise of the Sokolov device is discordant and makes Waverly grimace in distaste, and from the inside of the building there’s a gasp and the sound of heavy chains being dragged across a concrete floor. She follows Martin through into the narrow-windowed room, and the door is shut and locked behind them, the Sokolov device stopping.

There’s a soft huff of relief from the shape huddled behind the row of bars that bisect the room, and the young man raises his head from his knees.

He looks younger than Waverly was expecting, barely more than a boy, although the black cloths tied over his eyes and mouth make it difficult to judge. The thick iron manacles spreading his arms out across the wall, together with bare hands and shackled ankles, make him look smaller than perhaps he is. His nose has been bleeding, fresh blood over old, and there’s heavy bruising over his left hand. She expects him to call out to them, but he says nothing, only cocks his head in the direction of Martin’s uneven footsteps.

‘Still here, then,’ Martin rasps, and his voice cracks, a hand going to his throat.

The Whaler nods, and manages something like a shrug. He flexes his shoulders then, rolling his wrists in the manacles, and Waverly wonders how long he’s been locked in this position. She holds out a palm to Martin, and he hands her the keys without a word. The door through the bars is stiff, but it opens eventually and Waverly crosses the bare floor, avoiding the mud that’s been tracked in from the yard. She thanks Jessamine again for making trousers fashionable as she crouches beside the young man. He keeps his unseeing gaze on her, and she wonders if it’s true that his kind can use the Void to look through walls.

When she reaches up to his jaw, he raises his head just a little, allowing her to pull the gag out. The bloodied material sticks for a moment to the light stubble on his upper lip, and he grimaces and works his mouth when it’s gone.

‘Thank you,’ he says quietly after a moment. The accent’s Dunwall, but not as rough as she’d expected. ‘Too much to hope you’ll let me see as well?’

‘Far too much,’ she confirms, matching the volume of her voice to his, and his brow creases.

She stands, and realises that what she’d taken for bruising on his hand is… well, if it’s bruising then she’s a ferrywoman’s daughter. The shape of it is far too regular, too sleek and dark, and the sharpness of it reminds her of sigils she’s seen in Lydia’s books.

‘Lady Waverly?’ he says, frowning. ‘Ah. We’ve been looking for friends in the wrong places, I see.’

She checks that the outer door is closed, looks to Martin. ‘Not entirely,’ she tells the prisoner, hoping that she’s right. ‘You’re not to be harmed whilst you’re here.’

The Whaler lets out a huff of laughter at that, his mouth twisting in disbelief. ‘I’m chained and blindfolded in a jail in Holger Square, with my nose bleeding from those music boxes. People like me don’t leave Overseer custody until we’ve stopped breathing.’

Waverly looks to Martin to provide a reassurance, but he shakes his head, warning her that the effects of Sokolov’s tonic have worn off entirely. He’s moved to lean against the wall, his stance carefully casual and his face pale, his breath hitching occasionally as he tries to avoid coughing. She hopes he brought his handkerchief to hide the blood.

If he had any sense he’d have returned to his bed and left her to handle this, but she can respect his lack of trust in her even if she feels it unwarranted. They’ve known one another for some time now, since he was first sent to Boyle Manor to investigate the rumours about Lydia’s… activities, and they know well how to maintain an acquaintance based on the obfuscation of inconvenient truths. She’d been wary back then, a recent debutante in Dunwall society but already with a certain reputation for politicking, and she’d danced rings around him before she’d made it clear that Lydia’s ‘artistic interests’ were harmless, certainly moreso than the nocturnal activities of the then High Overseer. And of course, that is where Martin has always intrigued her: the office of the High Overseer is usually sought by men merely looking for more power to abuse, but whilst he is certainly interested in power, and understands the delicate balance to be maintained between the nobility and the Abbey, he also seems to believe in the Outsider, that effigy thrown up by sailors and lunatics so that they can imagine themselves brave when they quail at shadows and storms.

And whilst Waverly knows him and they are in this whole mess together to their necks, she has yet to discover whether she can honestly trust him in the matter of Emily Kaldwin’s life. The man owes Corvo, from what he’s told her, but since when have such obligations meant anything to men of religion?

‘Matters have been arranged,’ she tells the Whaler, folding her arms.

He makes a quiet sound that might be acknowledgement and might be doubt, but he nods. ‘How long?’

Waverly’s been told that someone will come for him during a lull in the guard rota tomorrow, after the attempt on the Empress’s life, but Martin doesn’t need to know that and in any case, plans change. ‘As long as is needed.’

His mouth twists in irritation. ‘A few more hours of being chained like this and they’ll need to carry me out. Whoever ‘they’ are.’

‘That will be their problem, not mine.’

She crouches down and tugs at the gag, and the Whaler sighs, works his jaw, but stays still as she pushes it back up. The blood on his lips has dried now, shades of red and brown against skin smeared with mud. Waverly wonders what he looks like, whether he’s younger than her, whether the Void really sounds in his ears, and stands to leave, extending her arm to Martin.

She might be able to get home before sunset, if she hurries.

 

The winter’s fading all too slowly; the Estate District is dark even in the early afternoon, and the few lit streetlamps flicker on their low oil ration. Their light shudders and breaks on the canal waters as the Boyle carriage stops beside the gates of the Manor. Waverly waits for a tallboy to pass before she steps out, walks quickly to the side door.

It opens before she has time to knock, and she smiles at Padgett as he bows her in. ‘Thank you,’ she says, handing him her gloves and taking the sealed letter that he presses into her hand. ‘Is Lydia in her study?’

‘Since tenth bell, ma’am,’ he replies. ‘Not heard a peep from her.’ Six hours.

She negotiates the packing crates stacked around the manor with some difficulty, and stares at the wood grain of Lydia’s study door for a long time, listening for any sound. Nothing. Lydia rarely makes much noise that can be heard through the door these days. Waverly’s not sure if that’s better or worse. There’s a tray pushed up to the skirting board: thin soup and crackers. The slight skin on the surface of the soup speaks to how long it’s been there.

Checking quickly for servants, she sits herself on the thick rug and examines the letter, cracking open the deep blue wax seal. It’s from the Tower: instructions from the Royal Guard to accompany the High Overseer to Kaldwin’s Bridge at the tenth bell tomorrow morning to “inspect the Royal Physician’s progress on a cure for the Plague”.

She’s never seen a more transparent attempt at keeping the two of them away from the Trade District. Like all Dunwall noblewomen, Waverly spent a year studying with the Academy, and like all Overseers Martin will have attended for a term, but given that Waverly studied primarily political philosophy and Martin imperial history, between them they might perhaps understand a quarter of Anton Sokolov’s notes. If they’re not in Tyvian as is rumoured.

Still, if Attano wants her out of the way, then out of the way she shall be.

There’s a sound through the wall at her back: something heavy being dragged across wooden floorboards, perhaps. Lydia’s both in there and awake, then. Waverly folds the letter, stands, and knocks.

‘Liddy?’ she calls, and when there’s no reply she sighs. ‘Can I come in?’

The three of them have had a rule between them since Waverly was old enough to understand rules: wait ten heartbeats after knocking for a reply. It’s enough time to hide anything that needs hiding (diaries, sweets and, later on, lovers) or, in extreme circumstances, to turn the lock. So she counts, and on the tenth heartbeat she tries the door.

It opens, a little to her surprise. Lydia’s got into the habit of locking it.

There’s chalk on the floorboards again, and the lingering stink of whale oil – it’s been daubed in the swirls and circles of the chalk lines, and throbs coldly blue against the mirrored candlelight. Their father’s priceless Tyvian rug is rucked up on the far side of the room against the window seat, and there’s a pile of rubbish in front of it, feathers and seaglass and twine and things that Waverly doesn’t want to look at too closely. Lydia, kneeling at the edge of the chalk, doesn’t look up as the door closes. She looks… restless, all feverish energy and exhaustion, hair piled messily at the back of her head. There’s a stub of chalk in her hand, a book open beside her, and she appears to be trying to grind the chalk down on the floorboards.

The two of them are only eighteen months apart; for much of her life Waverly has felt like the elder, but never more so than in the days since their big sister disappeared.

‘You haven’t had lunch,’ she says, keeping her voice soft.

Lydia glances to the book, back to the floor. ‘Later.’

‘You didn’t eat at all yesterday. I’m worried about you.’

‘I was busy looking for our sister all of yesterday.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Don’t humour me.’

Waverly folds her arms, patience thinning. ‘When did you last eat a full meal?’ No reply, and Lydia refuses to meet Waverly’s eyes, but the chalk stub stills. ‘Liddy, I won’t lose you both. Please eat.’

‘I almost have it. A few of the books mention charms that use the object’s hair, but there are so many different versions of the other components,’ Lydia says suddenly, turning on the floor to scrabble through the books behind her. ‘It’s as if everyone’s heard a different recipe from their grandmother or the neighbour or the odd woman down the street, so much guesswork and so much balderdash and _patently_ false justification – did you know that Anton thinks whalebone and whale oil are some form of…of synecdoche, almost? Which would suggest the Leviathan manifestation is the primary, but what use is that? So perhaps we could conclude that almost anything will work with the right power behind it, but they all say he doesn’t give that to just anyone; the rest of us have to beg, borrow or steal as we will, and Void take the consequences.’

She breaks off, frowning as if a thought has struck her.

Waverly shakes her head, thinking of the bruise-coloured mark on the young Whaler’s hand. She doesn’t believe in all of this. Lydia’s so-called spells have never worked, and the Abbey’s talk of an Outsider is nothing but a manipulation of the Empire’s populace. Daud and his Whalers are simply well-trained con artists with knives.

‘Just… be careful,’ she says, giving up. ‘And please eat something tonight.’

She makes herself wait only ten heartbeats for a reply. It doesn’t come, Lydia’s attention fixed on her books and spells, so Waverly leaves, pulling the door ajar, and goes down to compose her reply to the Royal Guard.

 

It’s an hour after moonrise when she walks out onto Esma’s balcony, pulling the door ajar behind her. She can see the heart of the Estate District from here, or what’s left of it. The canal is sluggish, low and clogged with debris, black as pitch except where the tallboys’ lights reflect off it, and a lot of the buildings on the other shore are empty, the few that display signs of life boarded up against looters. At least the guardsmen have brought in ratlights. The shouts that used to irritate her from peaceful sleep are reassuring now.

The city will not fall, _cannot_ fall, not now that a Kaldwin is back in the Tower. As long as she has the right advisors.

It’s barely warm enough to be outside. Waverly pulls her jacket close around herself at a particularly icy gust of wind, and steps into the shelter of the wall, glancing around. Dresses, whatever their faults, had certainly been warmer than trousers. She shivers, chilled even by the sound of the wind, and out of the corner of her eye sees a shift in the shadows at the edge of the balcony, black turning into shadowed red as he steps forward into the light.

Has Daud been there since she arrived? She’s sure she would have seen him.

‘Well?’ he growls.

She always forgets about that scar over his eye, how deep it is. He’s had it for as long as she’s known about him, although that’s barely a handful of years. She’d chased nothing but rumours at first, then with careful enquiry there had been a friend who’d heard of a woman who knew someone who sometimes worked with the Knife of Dunwall, and an introduction had been arranged. They’ve been working together since, exchanging information between the world of manors and parties and that of alleyways and knives. With the onset of the Plague, as Dunwall law has fallen to gang law, Waverly’s been sure to pass Daud information on potential new contracts, and in return he’s been listening for rumours of Esma and that scum Brisby. It can never hurt to have Dunwall’s most renowned assassin on her side.

‘I spoke to your man earlier,’ she says. ‘He very nearly finished the job Havelock started on Martin before he could be controlled, so he’s a little worse for wear, and he’s chained hand and foot, blindfolded and gagged. He’s otherwise not been harmed, as you requested.’

Daud nods, his expression its usual tired scowl. ‘Good.’ He hesitates then, closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Thank you. He’ll be taken off your hands tomorrow.’

‘I doubt Martin will make it easy.’

‘The Abbey never does. He’s in the building at the end of the yard, by the sea wall?’

‘He is. Attano wants to know the name of his co-conspirator.’

Daud’s eyes narrow. ‘You told Corvo you were working with me?’

‘I told him that your associates had approached me, and that I would try to find out more about the plan to assassinate Lady Emily,’ she corrects him primly.

He flexes his fists, and she can see the point of something intricate and sharp hidden by his coat. All of this negotiating with men so short on patience and trust – perhaps when all of this is over she should become a lawmaker. If she survives, if the Empire survives and if, she thinks wryly, there is anyone left to obey the law. She relents, sensing his frustration. It can’t be easy, trusting so much information to her, when only a day ago he discovered that he had been betrayed. ‘Attano believes me, I think, but he does not _like_ me,’ she says. ‘If I can give him more information, he is less likely to do something rash tomorrow, and you are less likely to lose your people to it. And besides, had I not informed you about your man’s proposition when he approached me, you would still be blissfully unaware of his intent to act.’

Daud frowns at her, shakes his head. ‘Cecelia’s certain he wanted to prevent the assassination attempt from going ahead, just as he told you,’ he says. ‘He was hoping that if he showed Corvo that my people would save Emily’s life, Corvo might leave us alone.’

Waverly raises an eyebrow. ‘And knowing this, you still gave him to the Overseers?’

‘I needed him out of the way, somewhere he couldn’t get out of and where no one could get to him, while I worked out what he’d actually done,’ Daud tells her irritably, and she wonders who he might have been expecting to “get to” the boy. He sounds as if he has someone in mind, but she can’t imagine who would brave the sheer number of men guarding Holger Square. Attano, perhaps?

Anyway, he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it; he moves to the edge of the balcony, watching a tallboy cross in front of him. Waverly rubs her hands on her arms to keep warm, looking forward to her bed tonight.

‘I’ll tell Attano you don’t know any more, then,’ she says. ‘Will you be there tomorrow?’

He nods. ‘Will you?’

‘Attano’s sent me with Martin to Kaldwin’s Bridge.’ Daud glances back quizzically. ‘To check on Sokolov’s progress, he says. It might at least be good to know how close the good physician believes he is to finding a cure.’

‘If there even is one,’ Daud murmurs.

Not something she wishes to consider. ‘Void help us if not.’

Daud makes a choked noise that might almost be laughter, shakes his head.

‘Void help us indeed.’


	9. Corvo: Dunwall Tower

Emily hides a yawn behind her hand as she pulls a map of the Trade District towards her, and Corvo glances at her over the paper-covered table, checks the time on the grandfather clock in the corner. Long past her usual bedtime.

He should have suggested that she get some sleep hours ago, but truth be told he’s wanted her with him, safe where he can see her and protect her. He and Tobias have been in Tobias's office going over schedules, orders and maps since they got back from Holger Square, looking for weak points in the Royal Guard and shoring them up with additional men or protections. There’ll be walls of light set up in two of the entrances to the square where Emily’s speaking – Corvo dislikes the infernal inventions, but when properly manned and with the control boxes watched there’s little better for ground control. The Watch have been instructed to comb through the surrounding buildings and report any gang activity in the area. There shouldn’t be much, given that reinforcing the area’s defences and guarding those citizens who have moved there after quarantine has been such a high priority.

‘Why don’t you get some rest,’ he suggests, writing up a few last notes on a map of the square where the speech will take place. ‘You’ll want to be awake and alert tomorrow.’ Tobias nods in silent agreement, not looking up from the schedule he’s reorganising, and Emily looks about to protest but then yawns again, and pushes the map away.

‘I _am_ a bit sleepy,’ she admits, standing. She stretches, arms wide, then rubs her eyes sleepily, throws a quick glance at Tobias which he pretends not to have seen, deep in his schedule. Corvo scowls at his map, trying to recall the height of the buildings on the eastern side, and makes a note to ask tomorrow.

He’s about to stand to go with Emily when she clears her throat cautiously. ‘Will you check my room?’ she asks, looking at the floor.

Corvo blinks, confused. He’s checked her room for monsters and assassins alike every evening since she first slept away from Jessamine, why would she think he’d stop now? But she’s looking determinedly at her feet, jaw set.

 _The Empress of the Isles must put away childish things,_ Jessamine says stridently, voice pitched the way she used to when imitating her father. _She cannot show fear or weakness; she must be strength itself._

Ah.

‘As always,’ he says formally, dipping his head to Emily and watching her lips curve into a tremulous smile. ‘Tobias, if you could have that ready for discussion when I return?’

‘Of course,’ Tobias answers. ‘Good night, Lady Emily.’

‘Good night, General.’

They leave together, and Emily’s silent as they walk to her chambers, trails her fingers over Corvo’s door and then her mother’s (Corvo refuses to let that ever be Burrows’ rooms, no matter that he’s seen Jessamine's belongings in storage downstairs along with his own – one day, when he and Emily have space and time, they’ll clear it out). When they reach her door, already guarded, Emily smiles at the guardswomen there and waits for Corvo to slip one of the keys out of his pocket.

He checks carefully through her small sitting room, dressing room, bathing room and bedroom, paying careful attention to the beat of the Heart and then letting the Void seep into his vision for a more thorough check. The Tower staff will have been by earlier to light the lamps and hearth and turn down Emily’s bed, but they’re mostly in the servants’ quarters now. The Tower is calming down for the night, guards posted where they should be and nothing and no one lurking in the drizzling dark outside Emily’s bedroom window.

‘Clear,’ he calls, and Emily enters, closing the door gently behind her and toeing off the shoes she’s been wearing all day. She heads straight for the window seat, leaning back into the cushions there and drawing her feet up, and gestures to a nearby chair. Corvo adjusts his sword belt and sits, watching the glow of the security lights through the rain whilst he waits for Emily to gather her thoughts. The future Empress pulls out her black barrette, letting her hair brush her shoulders, and starts combing out the dark locks with her fingers. It’s almost long enough for her to start braiding it now; she used to make vague noises about cutting it back at the Hound Pits, but they have plenty of other things to be done first. Corvo leans back in the chair, closes his eyes for a few moments, maps and schedules racing through his head. There’s still a lot to go through with Tobias before he’ll be happy about Emily’s safety tomorrow, especially when Waverly hasn’t come back to them with any further information.

Emily clears her throat delicately, arms wrapped around her legs. ‘Are you going to go and see Daud tonight?’ she asks, resting her chin on her knees.

Corvo frowns, considering his answer. He doesn’t want her involved in any of this any more than she has to be, but he’s not going to lie to her. ‘Need to talk to him,’ he says shortly.

He’s fairly confident that he can take on Whalers if he needs to; he should have done this earlier. Should have killed Daud instead of leaving a note warning him to leave, but on reading the man’s journal he’d decided to give him one last chance, in recognition of the fact that he’d apparently saved Emily from witches and was planning on leaving Dunwall anyway.

Well. No more last chances.

Emily’s watching him with her head on one side, waiting for him to say more.

‘I told him to leave Gristol,’ he tells her. ‘He hasn’t, and now I find him involved in this… whatever _this_ is.’

‘How do you know he’s involved?’ Emily asks innocently. ‘You said he saved my life before, and Lady White says Waverly would say anything to get ahead.’

Corvo stares at her. It… hadn’t really occurred to him that Waverly and Martin could be lying. What would they gain from it? _He has caught a shark_ , he remembers Jessamine murmuring. What if only Waverly was lying, and she’s the one who’s hired Daud, or she’s hired another assassin entirely and he’s not even involved?

His temples thud with the onset of a headache, and he rests his forehead on his fingertips. ‘I don’t,’ he concedes.

‘I think you should ask him,’ Emily says. ‘And if he’s not involved, I think you should ask him to come and visit me.’

‘Ask him to come and visit you,’ Corvo repeats flatly, not looking up.

‘Yes. I want to talk to him. And Captain Curnow was talking about that gang yesterday in the meeting about the evacuation - the Hatters? He said they called a truce with the Watch and started helping with the cleanup. What was it he said….’ She laughs quietly. ‘ “We need every body we can get, and anyway, I’d rather have them in here pissing out than out there pissing in.” And the Whalers are a gang too, right? Maybe they want to help as well.’

Corvo makes a mental note to tell Geoff to watch his language around his future Empress, because that’s easier to process than the fact that Emily has just suggested that he ask her mother’s murderers for a _truce_. ‘I suppose they might,’ he agrees cautiously. ‘What do you want to say to Daud?’

Emily leans against the window glass, scrunches up her face. ‘Only if he’s not going to try to kill me. You said he’s like you, with the Mark, and he saved me from witches. But I still want to shout at him, and I want him to say sorry for… for what he did. I thought about it a lot when I was at the Cat. I was going to put him in Coldridge for ever and ever until he died, but Mother always said you should give people another chance, no matter how bad they’ve been. Spymaster Burrows executed people, and I don't want to be like him, I want to be like Mother. Besides, Daud wouldn’t have killed Mother if Spymaster Burrows hadn’t told him to. Maybe he can work for me, like Overseer Martin and Doctor Sokolov, and then we don’t have to worry about other people paying him to kill us, because we’ll be the ones paying him.’

She looks at him triumphantly, daring him to challenge her logic. It’s… surprisingly difficult, once he sets aside the simmering rage at what was done, and Emily’s words are bringing to mind some of Jessamine’s long rants about the difference between justice and vengeance.

‘As long as he doesn’t get a better offer, I suppose,’ Corvo says weakly. ‘You’ve been thinking hard about this, haven’t you.’

‘There wasn’t much else to do at the Cat. I had a lot of time to think about it.’

She widens her eyes then, those big brown eyes that make him almost certain she’s his daughter and completely certain that he’s going to end up doing whatever she wants. ‘You’ll ask him?’

Corvo shakes his head slowly, but it’s not a denial. ‘I’ll ask him, if and _only_ if it turns out that he’s somehow not involved in all of this.’

‘Good,’ Emily says, sounding satisfied. She’s about to say something else, but claps her hand over her mouth as she yawns. ‘I’m going to go to bed, then,’ she says, and when Corvo stands to leave she swings down from the seat and hugs him tightly. He folds his arms around her, rests his cheek on her hair for a moment.

‘You’ll be careful, Corvo?’ she asks against the fabric of his coat.

‘I will.’

When he returns to the office, Tobias looks up from the desk and hands him a schedule: the guard rota and details for tomorrow’s outing. ‘I’ve included the Overseers, but Lady Boyle’s guardsmen can fill gaps where they’re needed,’ the soldier says wearily. ‘I sent a messenger to her strongly suggesting that she visit the High Overseer at Holger Square whilst we’re at the Trade District; I’d rather have the two of them somewhere there are eyes on them. No offence, Corvo, but I don’t entirely trust them.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ Corvo says wryly, sitting down and starting to read through the document. He doesn’t recognise more than half of the names; Burrows must have been thorough in his purge of the Tower Guard, or perhaps more of them have fallen to the Plague than he’d imagined.

They sit there well into the early hours of the morning, until finally Tobias leans back in his chair, stretching, and announces that he’s going to get some shuteye before the big day. Corvo wishes him a goodnight and waits for a few minutes, jotting down last-minute comments on the map. Then he goes up to his bedroom and changes into a dark, unmarked coat, muffling his face with a black scarf, and waits for the near-silence of the morning before swinging himself out onto the roof tiles above the servants’ quarters.

Corvo’s walked into Dunwall Tower on high alert; when he has a copy of the patrol schedule in his desk drawer, the journey out is easy.

The night is cold but still, and he keeps to the edge of the river, blinking over plague barriers and factory fences, careful not to slip on the glistening frost and glad that his hands are gloved. He heads towards the bay, path illuminated by the red eyes of buoys and ratlit wharves awaiting the return of whaling ships and the moonlight shattering on the receding tide. As he nears the Flooded District he slows, lets the Void flood his vision more often as he watches for Whalers. They’re waiting on the highest buildings, most of them, and the weepers are almost all in the lowest rooms, so he weaves a path between them all with sleep darts and silent footsteps, always on alert. Once Corvo’s closer to the ruins of Commercial House, he crouches down behind a low roof, watches the patrols to establish patterns before he makes his move.

There: those two are far enough from the others, one hanging back as they exit a blind alley, and no one else in line of sight. A blink and Corvo’s behind them, his back to a wall and a sleepdart in his target’s side. The man slumps back into Corvo’s arms and his patrol companion turns, startled, levels a small crossbow at the two of them.

Corvo angles his wrist, letting the moonlight glint off the blade he’s holding to the unconscious man’s stomach. ‘I want to talk to Daud.’

‘A lot of people do,’ the Whaler replies, her voice tight. ‘Mostly they fucking _ask_ if they don’t want a bolt through the eye.’

Corvo remembers the wanted poster pinned to walls throughout Commercial House and reaches up to pull the scarf down from his face. He gives her a few moments to recognise him in the dim light, and smiles as she lowers her crossbow. ‘I went through your entire territory without injuring anyone last time I was here,’ he says, ‘but I don’t have time for that right now and I don’t want to hurt anyone I don’t have to. Now, can you get me to Daud?’

The Whaler shrugs, but her shoulders have loosened, and she hooks the crossbow back onto her belt. ‘He’s told us not to attack unless you do. Not sure if a knife in Cooper’s guts counts as an attack, but you’re going to have to let him go if you want me to take you to the old man.’

A gamble, perhaps, but Corvo’s fairly sure that if Daud wants him dead, he’ll give him the honour of doing it himself. He sheathes his knife slowly and eases the heavy body to the cobbles, and as he stands up the Whaler whistles, a short swooping note that bounces between broken walls and still water.

Before the echoes have faded there are the soft sounds of others appearing, and Corvo clenches his fists, reminded of the last time he was surrounded like this. Two masked figures kneel beside Cooper, checking his pulse before blinking out with him; two others back his companion, exchanging swift hand gestures with her before one of them steps forward.

‘Lord Attano, I’m Rinaldo,’ he says. ‘If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to Daud.’ The faintest remnants of a Serkonan accent are audible beneath the mask, and Jessamine’s heart skips in Corvo’s chest pocket.

 _His only living relative is sick, but from the weight of years only_ , she supplies. _He has heard of the amnesty for citizens who will submit to quarantine but fears that his aunt will not survive it. If he dies today, he has no illusions about how long she will outlive him._

That’s going to have to do for now. Corvo nods to Rinaldo and follows him through the lanternlit maze they’ve made of the streets, oddly aware of how long it takes when he’s not travelling through the Void. There are Whalers everywhere, watching them in silent pairs outlined against the sky or bathed in shadows. Corvo finds himself grateful for long years of needing to appear emotionless in front of an audience, even when his fingers itch to close around a hilt. It used to be that he’d listen to the murmurs of the aristocrats teeming in the ballroom, the click of heels on the marble floors and the rustles of expensive cloth; here it’s the gulping water below them as the tide shifts it around, the occasional call of seabirds, the creak of wood.

Once they’re inside Commercial House, Rinaldo reaches up and undoes the straps of his mask, pulls it off and scrubs his hands over close-cropped dark hair, then turns to a black-clothed boy standing at the desk inside. ‘Tell Daud the Lord Protector’s here to see him,’ he says. The boy nods once and disappears in shards of Void like shattered glass, the inrush of air making Corvo’s ears pop. Rinaldo turns back to Corvo, gestures to the door in the back of the room that Corvo couldn’t open last time he was here, and leads him through the warren of the old building.

When they reach the frosted glass doors, Rinaldo turns, his hand still on the handle.

‘I’m sure you know this,’ he says quietly, ‘but if you hurt him, we will hurt you back.’

Such loyalty. Corvo’s fingers itch. He keeps his expression neutral, eyes front. ‘If this goes as I’m hoping, we’ll get your aunt somewhere safe so you don’t have to worry about her,’ he replies flatly, and then he reaches past the staring Whaler to rap his knuckles on the glass.

The Whaler opens his mouth to speak, but a voice that is unmistakably Daud’s calls for Corvo to come in, and Rinaldo still hasn't found his words by the time the door closes again.

The large office is cold, lit by yellow oil lamps against the darkness of the night but unheated, and yet Daud is sitting at the large desk in his shirtsleeves, writing in a book that he sets to one side as Corvo approaches. It’s an oddly domestic scene for the assassin; Corvo’s almost surprised he’s not wearing reading spectacles.

He’s only a few feet away when Daud looks up, pushes back his chair and stands slowly, hands on the desk. His long knife is sheathed at his belt, his wristbow placed a few careful inches from his fingers; if he wanted, he could kill Corvo now. He could try, anyway.

But he doesn’t; he folds his arms, hands tucked flat against his ribs so that Corvo can see he’s not going for the knife, and he waits for Corvo to speak first.

What to say. Corvo considers it, realises he’d expected Daud to attack him, or at least to say something, not to just stand there as if Corvo’s a Whaler making a report. Finally he settles on the direct, the obvious.

‘Are you planning to kill Emily?’

Daud cocks an eyebrow. ‘If I am, you’ve just made it a whole lot easier by delivering her Lord Protector to me on a silver platter.’

‘You saved her life.’

‘Maybe I had a contract on the witches.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Waverley tell you that? You trust her after what you did to her sister?’

‘No, but she _did_ tell me you accepted a contract on Emily.’

Daud shifts at that, leans over his desk and retrieves a piece of paper, which he holds out. Cautious, Corvo moves forward to take it from him.

It’s a contract, written in a neat, sloping hand that appears in places on the desk around Daud – although not on the discarded book – and it promises an obscene amount of money for the “termination of the imperial Kaldwin line”. That’s all. Not for Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin, not for a little girl who’s as good as Corvo’s daughter, just for an imperial bloodline, more impersonal than the Tower’s kennel breeding books. There are no other names on the document either, just a short scrawl at the bottom that starts with a J, or possibly a T.

‘My second wrote and signed a contract on Emily with an intermediary who wouldn’t show his face,’ Daud says when Corvo looks up from it. ‘I wasn’t aware he’d done it until last night. He’s been secured and won’t be a concern. I’m told that his plan was to figure out the identity of the nobleman offering the contract, and if he couldn’t do that he’d use the Whalers to protect Emily during the attempt — even if it meant risking his life by showing himself to you.’

Corvo scowls. ‘Easy enough to say. How do you know he’s not just told you that to save his own skin?’

‘Because I spent all of yesterday night and most of this morning talking to the people he’d assigned to it,’ Daud growls. ‘Look, Corvo, I haven’t slept in two days and I don’t have the patience for this bullshit at the best of times. I can tell you what I know, and what I _know_ is that Thomas went behind my back and was planning to risk his life so that you wouldn’t come in here with the Abbey and the Watch and do your level best to slaughter us all. If you’re planning on doing that anyway, could you just get the fuck on with it?’

Corvo’s seriously considering it when a double heartbeat thumps abruptly in his breast pocket, followed by Jessamine’s voice smooth in his ear. _He considers you a good man, and his people will not leave Dunwall. If he must die, he feels that it is only appropriate that he dies on your blade._

The words are neutral, far from the furious and wounded cry that rang in his head the first time he came here, and he makes himself stop, makes himself breathe and remember what Emily said to him before she went to bed. _Mother said you should always give people another chance._ Jessamine had never had people executed when she had a choice in the matter, after all. Corvo’s tried to follow through on that where he could, and… well, perhaps if the Whalers want to stay, they can be useful.

Daud is watching him, palms flat on the desk and shoulders tense, waiting for a knife maybe.

‘All right,’ Corvo mutters, half to Jessamine and half to Daud. He puts the contract back down on the table, looks at the wall of posters and maps over Daud’s shoulder. To his surprise, his own face is there, one of those old sketches Burrows put up around the city when he escaped. Someone’s drawn a passable impression of his mask in the corner, scrawled _do not engage_ beneath it.

‘All right what?’ Daud asks.

‘I believe you. Outsider knows why. And Emily wants to talk to you.’

‘What?’

‘She’s feeling magnanimous,’ Corvo says sourly, not entirely sure he feels the same way. ‘Consider yourself summoned to the Tower when this is all done, if we’re all still alive.’

‘I’ll wear my best coat,’ Daud replies, looking sceptical. He stands straight, stretching out his shoulders, and sighs. ‘Waverley’s pretty sure that whoever ordered this hit, they’re up at the Tower, and they also have people in the Abbey. She doesn’t trust you, that’s why all the Tyvian whispers. Thinks you’ll say the wrong thing at the wrong time and get her and Martin killed.’

Corvo can’t help but raise an eyebrow. ‘And _you_ trust me?’

‘You’re far too honest for that, Lord Protector. It’d be like trusting a puppy. But you’re here, so we’ll work with what we have.’

Before Corvo can voice offence, Daud’s turned to the board behind him.

‘Now. Whoever hired us, they know they’ve been discovered thanks to you telling the whole Tower, but they don’t yet know you’re working with us and it’s going to stay like that. Still, no one who knows enough to hire through an intermediary leaves this kind of job to a single team; there’s always a backup. I’m guessing a single assassin, maybe two, with a gun or a knife. If my Whalers search the rooftops and the overlooking buildings, can the Tower Guard, the Watch and Waverley’s people cover the ground and the crowd?’


	10. Thomas: Holger Square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating for violence starts rising - check the chapter endnotes for warnings.

Thomas is fairly sure that it’s still dark when they come for him – he can’t see through the thick blindfold, but it’s some time after he hears the Overseers outside talking about the midnight readings, and night in Dunwall has less of the echo that rings dry over the day.

He’s spent the day trying not to think about a lot of things: hunger, thirst, pain, fury, guilt. Daud sent him here by himself and the Overseers were ready and waiting for him, and whilst Lady Boyle and High Overseer Martin have said he’ll be safe and allowed to leave, he’s chained hand and foot and hasn’t been given food or water. He can only assume that Daud’s found out about the contract on Emily, and desperately hope that Cecelia explained the situation to him. That the old man didn’t send him here to die, thinking he’d been betrayed by another person he trusted.

Thomas's stomach growls. His shoulders are a line of pain he’s trying to ignore, his back cramped and aching. He’s been listening to the noises in the yard since his Overseer guards last changed, trying to distract himself from the pain and from the dried blood crusting his upper lip. He arches his body again, stretching his legs out and circling his shoulders as much as he can, and it’s then that he hears the telltale click of the Sokolov device being unlatched outside. He has just enough time to lower himself back down before the chords close in, scraping his head raw and turning his stomach.

Tied down and blindfolded as he is, the dizziness hits him like a trampling horse, violent and claustrophobic, and all he can do is hold his breath and pray for it to stop, his heart swooping and bursting in his chest and thudding in his ears. A bloom of new agony tells him that he’s pulling on his shackles, his body doing its best to get him out, away, _anywhere_ but where the noise turns the air on his skin to razor blades.

Somewhere past comprehension he hears a door open, the clang of bars. Someone laughs.

The assault stops, and Thomas lets himself fall boneless to the dirt, swallowing bile and gasping for air through the gag and the blood gushing from his nose. Of _course_ Lady Boyle was lying; of course the High Overseer won’t let him live.

There are men talking, jeering around him, but distinguishing words is far too much for him to handle with his head still spinning from the device. There’s a kick to his thigh from a steel toecap, hard enough to break the skin; he gasps as he tries to twist away and the pain in his shoulders flares. A gloved hand grabs his chin, cranes his neck up, and he realises that he’s being asked a question but he can’t understand it and more importantly he can’t _breathe_ , his arms pulled back and his throat strained and he struggles wildly, is shoved back against the wall.

He waits for the next kick, trying to calm his heartbeat and his breathing and willing the ringing in his head to subside. Panicking won’t help him. If he’s lucky, they’ll get bored of this and untie him, and if the blindfold slips even for a split second he can transverse out, but he has to be ready. They asked a question, but he can’t speak through the gag so they can’t really have been expecting an answer. They’re still talking above him, so he listens to the noises that he can’t quite make out, until they condense into words.

‘—noise than we have to. Just slit his throat and dump the body in the river.’

‘And risk raising an alarm when he’s found on the morning tide? No. His blindfold slipped, he disappeared into the Void, and no one saw him leave. We stick with the plan.’

 _Raising an alarm_ , he thinks, still muzzy. That should be important, somehow. He shifts his weight a little, and can’t stifle a gasp as fire spreads through his shoulders.

Somebody crouches down heavily at his left, their bootsoles grating on the floor and the faint scent of tobacco on their clothing. There’s a slide of metal leaving a sheath, then a sharpness pulls slowly over the back of his shackled hand, tracing what must be the shades of his Mark.

Thomas realises he’s started shaking, tries not to imagine the blade turning to draw blood.

‘The Void is that?’ a man asks above him.

The person beside him shifts, the knife tip idly outlining what Thomas knows are the dark smudges around his knuckles, the swirled edges at the joint of his thumb, the shuddering lines up the inside of his forearm. Every Whaler’s shading is different, none of them as clean or concise as the sigil on Daud.

‘Never seen one of Daud’s kids before? That’s his Mark.’

‘Looks like someone stomped on his arm. What happens if you take it off?’

‘Don’t know. Heard tell they tried it with a couple, but neither of them survived losing the skin.’

The knife lurches for a moment, sliding into Thomas’s skin, and he bites back a hiss of pain. They haven’t lost many Whalers to the Abbey, not enough that he can’t start wondering which of them died to that, whether his corpse will be discarded beside theirs. The man beside him snorts derisively and stands, sheathing his blade.

‘Go on, then.’

Thomas realises the next kick is coming a full heartbeat before it connects with his ribs, and can’t stop himself from trying to curl up. A line of agony sears down his shoulders as the Sokolov device starts up again, driving the breath from his lungs. His scream comes out as nothing more than a gasp, and the response is a fist crashing into his temple. He goes under, into the dark.

 

Some of the Whalers dream of the Void. They mutter uneasily during dull rooftop patrols about a blue endlessness pockmarked with shattered friezes. They talk about swirling shadows formed in cracks that crawl away as they approach, about light that comes from nowhere and everywhere, and about silence that creeps and fizzes inside the ear until they could almost swear the stones themselves were singing.

Thomas has never been one of them.

 

He wakes to light flickering over his eyelids, metal shuddering constantly underneath his sprawled body, and when he tries to move he realises that he has at least one broken rib. One eye’s swollen shut; the other’s stuck, and when he brings a hand to his face he feels blood half-dried sticky over his lashes. At least the blindfold and gag are gone. There’s a squeal of metal underneath him, and he recognises the constant shuddering—he’s on one of the railed carriageways they use to transport trade goods through the city. Trade goods and dead bodies.

A hacking cough rips through the sound of metal wheels, and Thomas freezes in the act of rubbing his undamaged eye and thinks frantically. _Dead_ bodies. Not live ones. Weepers are shot on sight now.

But then there’s the wet sound of blood spattering on the floor, and feet shuffle inches from his legs. And more, not far away. The train lurches around a bend, the carriage tipping, and groans and wordless noises of complaint rise as bodies thump against the carriage wall. A _lot_ of bodies, enough that they’re jostling against one another, and he can’t count the number of voices.

They’ve dumped him in a carriage full of weepers.

Yet he hasn’t been attacked yet, or even stepped on. Maybe they think he’s dead; he’s never seen them attack corpses. Of course, he’s never really watched them. Any sane person stays well away from anyone showing even the slightest signs of the Plague, let alone weepers. The train’s moving, which means it’s going somewhere, which hopefully means its cargo will be unloaded at some point. If he just stays still until then, maybe he’ll be safe. And staying still feels like a good option in any case: he hurts everywhere, he hasn’t eaten for nearly two days, and he’s fairly sure that if he tried to stand right now he’d fall over the next time the carriage tipped.

A buzzing sounds overhead, a loudspeaker somewhere outside the carriage, and the weepers stir and mumble. ‘ _Citizens of the Trade District, Lady Emily will be speaking in Morley Square in twenty minutes. The entry barriers are now closed for reasons of security. For their own safety, citizens should now not attempt to enter Morley Square until Lady Emily has left_.’

Twenty minutes, and he’s stuck here with no way to help and no strength to do so even if he could. The carriage begins to slow. Thomas tries to remember where the rail tracks are, which part of the city he might be in. They run mostly through the southern half of Dunwall, high above all but factory buildings and visible enough that they’re virtually useless for sneaking around on, so he hasn’t really paid them much mind before.

The carriage stops, creaks, and suddenly light floods it. Dozens of pairs of feet shuffle away from Thomas, towards the light where someone must have opened the loading door.

They don’t seem to move far, and there are voices a little way off, coherent ones. Thomas can’t quite make out what they’re saying over the groans and coughs. He lets the noise die down a bit before he dares to move, scrubbing his sleeve over his eye. It unsticks, and he opens it, blinking painfully, and pushes himself upright to lean against the carriage wall, ignoring the complaints from his entire upper body.

When he looks up, three weepers are watching him.

He freezes, waiting for them to attack. They gaze at him incuriously, and although one shifts a little they show no sign of considering violence. Two middle-aged women and a young man, barely more than a child. One of the women coughs, a deep racking thing that bubbles in her chest and brings blood to her lips. Perhaps they’re tired from the crowding, or too weak to move?

Looking at the blood spattered around him, Thomas pulls the collar of his shirt over his mouth as much as he can. He needs to find a mask, and fast, or come sunset he’ll be no different to them—if it’s not too late already, but there’s no point dwelling on that. Beyond them he can see walls, but if he tries transversing from here he’ll land straight in the middle of the weepers milling around on the wooden floor.

So he forces himself to stand up, almost biting his tongue when he jostles his ribs. It hurts—Void, stars and _sea_ it hurts—but when he’s upright, he can tell he’s going to be able to stay that way, at least unless something attacks. He eyes the weepers warily, scrubbing dried blood from his face and ears with the back of his sleeve. His lower lip’s split, swollen and tender, but his arms and legs are fine, if stiff, and that’s all he needs right now.

Well. Two eyes would be useful, but at least it’s just bruising, nothing permanent.

Giving the still-unmoving weepers a wide berth, he edges slowly towards the wide door. The carriage has stopped inside a warehouse loading dock, and there’s no visible source for the voices he heard before. The stairs up to the warehouse office are a wreck of twisted and rusted metal and the weepers seem to be penned, milling around aimlessly. One or two of them look in Thomas’s direction and he freezes, but although their eyes snag on him for heart-stopping moments, they all ignore him. Maybe they’ve been made docile somehow?

As he’s wondering about it, their noise increases suddenly, bringing with it a groaning scramble towards the wreck of the stairs, and Thomas edges out just enough to see the lower half of a man approaching the edge of the walkway. The weepers’ faces and hands are twisted with aggression as they reach upward for him, their coughs and moans becoming growls and roars that roll over the room as he walks along the railing.

So it’s not the weepers that are different—it’s Thomas.

He feels sick. Weepers don’t attack each other. That’s it, then. He’s caught the Plague. The dry tickle in his throat he’s been feeling since he woke suddenly feels like a deadly warning rather than an annoyance, and he wonders how much of his tiredness is from his capture and how much is the sickness.

A loudspeaker crackles and rings outside the warehouse. ‘ _Citizens of the Trade District, Lady Emily will be speaking in Morley Square in ten minutes. For their own safety, citizens should not attempt to enter Morley Square until Lady Emily has left_.’

As the announcement fades, the office door opens. The man on the walkway turns towards it, and Thomas steps back a little, wary of being seen. They’re not likely to mistake him for a weeper.

‘All secure?’ a woman asks.

‘Aye,’ the man replies. ‘I’ll stay out here for a bit, keep them wound up—when the door’s opened they’ll run straight to the square.’

‘Good.’

The man takes half a step forward, and then seems to think better of himself. There’s a pause. ‘Just seems like a lot of effort just for one girl, that’s all,’ he says. ‘Seems there should be ways that don’t involve everyone in the place too. Cleaner ways.’

The woman sighs. ‘They tried clean with her mother, and look where that got them. No, it’s best this way. Tragic accident halfway through the girl’s speech while transporting the Tyvian’s experiment fodder, nothing to be done, and if those Serkonan whoresons try their magic to save themselves the new High Overseer’ll cut their arms off then start on the rest of them. Overwhelming force, d’you see? Now check the winches, shut up while you’re at it, then come in and get your elixir ration before it all kicks off.’ The office door slams shut.

Thomas stares at the far wall of the carriage as the man moves to check the door mechanism at the end of the walkway, the weepers surging beneath him. He’d figured the plan was just him and the Whalers, a short sharp hit designed to take Lady Emily out which he could undermine with ease, but it’s becoming apparent that he’s not only dangerously underestimated his client, but he’s put the lives of Void knows how many Dunwall citizens on the line along with Emily’s.

Overwhelming force? Well, he can manage that, if he can find a weapon and they have elixir in the office.

He clenches his left fist and transverses up to the walkway. A tethering slams the heavy winch ropes around the man’s neck, tight enough that he can’t summon the breath to make a sound before he falls unconscious. When he’s still, Thomas lowers the dead weight quietly to the floor. Weapons: a sword, a gun and a short belt knife, none of them anything Thomas would use if he had a choice. A sword will only get in the way, and he’s useless with a gun—they don’t have spare ammunition at Rudshore to practice with. He thinks wistfully of his wristbow and long knives, probably now decorating the belt of an Overseer or discarded as heretical tools, and takes the knife, dragging the body to the inner edge of the walkway where it’s hidden from the door.

There are bits of rusted metal scattered over the walkway; he picks up a length, transverses up to the warehouse rafters, and throws it at the office door. The man who comes out, grumbling, gets his throat cut from behind, and the woman gets the same. Thomas doesn’t have the luxury of being careful and merciful when an elbow to the ribs will send him reeling. There are two elixir rations in the office, thank the Void.

He downs one immediately, and feels the disquieting sensation of his Mark pulsing as bone and skin knit back together. There’s a betting pool back at Commercial House about whether Sokolov knows his elixir has the effect that it does on the Marked. Daud, the only one of them who’s met the man, has his coin on complete ignorance, but whatever the truth, the Whalers probably wouldn’t have survived everything the Plague throws at them without it. Thomas stretches, glad of the significantly reduced pain and ability to open his other eye, and tucks the second vial into his belt as the speakers begin to broadcast Emily’s voice to the District. There’s food in the office as well, only dry crackers and tinned fish but more than he’s eaten since the day before last, and he eats as fast as he can and washes it down with water from a leaky faucet.

He steps out of the office in time to see the loading bay doors open and weepers stumbling at speed into the cold sunlight, still wound to fury.

The man he strangled is hanging half-conscious from the winch, and croaks something inaudible at him before collapsing back to the floor. Thomas briefly considers tethering him straight down into the mass of weepers below to distract them, but it’s a little late for that now.

A transversal puts him on a ledge above street level, two more onto the rooftops to get his bearings, and yes, he’s in the Trade District, an almost straight run from Morley Square with the plague barriers blocking side streets. He can’t get any higher from this angle; he follows the path ahead of the weepers instead, running where he can and transversing where he can’t, trying to save his energy. He’s a street away from the square when he sees the back of the first Overseer. They’re carrying a Sokolov device. Thomas swallows the threat of nausea and transverses upwards, wondering if Daud has kept the Whalers back at Rudshore or brought them here.

His question’s answered as soon as he reaches the rooftops: there’s a swirl of air immediately behind him and he turns to see Ivanov standing there, arms folded. Funny how they’ve learned to recognise each other even with the masks on, but then they all have their own ways of wearing their gear.

‘You should not be here, Thomas,’ Ivanov says, but he doesn’t move to stop him.

‘No time to chat,’ Thomas replies, moving to the edge of the roof so that he can see the end of the street. There’s a wall of light and a guard point set up twenty yards before it opens out into the square, but even as he watches it the Overseers and guardsmen on both sides are moving into a barricaded shop, and the crackles of light from the metal are suddenly gone as they turn it off. ‘Fuck. Weepers are coming in from Dyer’s Lane, maybe fifty of them. How in the Void do you stop fifty weepers?’

Ivanov moves with him. ‘Can you not see the wall of—ah. I see. Fire, then. There will be oil canisters in the guard bay. Use a lot, and do not stand close when you set the flame. Why are you covered in blood?’ Even as he asks, he unhooks a grenade from his belt and hands it over.

‘It’s not all mine. If I start the fire, will you tell everyone to watch the other exits?’

‘Daud will not like this.’

‘Daud won’t like the Empress and Lord Protector dead, either,’ Thomas growls. He clenches his fist to transverse down to the guard point, and Ivanov nudges his shoulder.

‘I will tell them. You should take this also,’ the Tyvian says, unstrapping his small crossbow and dart cuff. Thomas grins as he take them, glad to have some range that he can trust. ‘Good luck,’ Ivanov adds.

There are two oil canisters in the guard post, both full. The power unit for the wall of light is there too, but the line’s cut, presumably so that the guards can blame sabotage if anyone asks, and there’s oil leaking everywhere. Thomas disengages the canister in the power unit and takes it up to an overhanging balcony, then picks up the full ones too, careful to stay out of sight from the shop where the guards and Overseers are boarded up. Holding the unwieldy canisters under his arm, he pours them out across the cobbles just around the corner, already able to hear the growls of weepers approaching as the oil pools in the gaps.

The strip of glowing blue is three yards wide all across the street by the time he transverses back up to the rooftops and the first weepers are coming around the corner, lurching and clawing. The grenade is cold and heavy in his hand; he breathes in as he watches, calculating the distance it has to go. He’d rather have an arc mine, really, something that’ll spark reliably and doesn’t bounce, but they have a limited supply back at the House and they’re certainly not issued as standard.

 _Now_. The grenade thuds to the ground just behind the first weepers, and for a moment Thomas is terrified that it’s not going to go off.

The explosion triggers a huge, blunt roar and a sheet of blinding blue fire. Thomas, eyes watering and vision flashing, is extremely glad that he retreated up to the roof.

When he’s able to see again, he looks back down, worried that pain-deadened weepers will just walk straight through the fire. His fears are unfounded, but he still watches in horror: they run into the fire, but few of them run out again except to collapse, unmoving. He’s suddenly grateful that in their advanced sickness, none of them can make enough sound to scream. Until he remembers that tomorrow that’ll be him.

He makes himself watch, a bolt fitted to the crossbow in case any of them escape. None do.

The roar of the oil fire dies down after a few harrowing minutes, and Thomas disarms the crossbow and lets himself collapse back onto the roof, shaking and with his heart in his throat. He’s killed people before, of course he has, but never that many at once. Never like this, with the stink of charred flesh and flail of burning limbs; before it’s always been planned, careful and methodical and as fast as he could make it. Most of his targets don’t know he’s there until their last breath—those that do are often spitting and snarling and promising retribution at the end. Not gasping for air and breathing fire instead.

He turns onto his hands and knees in time to throw up, and as he’s rising back to his feet, spitting, he hears the screams coming from Morley Square.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings (all non-graphic) for mild violence, canon-typical casual murder and death by fire, vomiting.


	11. Corvo: Morley Square

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corvo cannot tell where the explosion was, only that it was within a few streets. In the settling echoes, he hears a low roar that can’t be anything other than whale oil igniting. He follows Emily’s gaze to the plume of smoke rising beyond the western wall of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter beta'd / entirely rewritten by the wonderful amoeve after she got fed up of me complaining about it.
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments you've been leaving, and for sticking around despite my spectacularly abysmal posting schedule.

Corvo barely hears the opening sentences of Emily’s speech.

He scans the crowd and the square and the fragile young Empress in front of him, his thoughts on the hours of planning with Tobias and then with Daud. They both covered so many scenarios, but he of all people knows that nothing ever goes as planned, so there must be something he hasn’t thought about, some angle he’s missed. Emily’s words slide off him, into the mass of people whose faces he can’t stop running his eyes over, wondering which one of them will switch from citizen to saboteur, if he’ll catch it in time.

The barriers hold the crowd a good way back from the makeshift stage. Emily’s words ring out into a space lined with Tobias and Waverly’s people, a live wall between the Empress and her people. Every entrance to the square is closed with a wall of light and attended by Tower Guards and Overseers. Scraps of Kaldwin blue cloth flutter in the breeze at the topmost gutters of every building, a quiet indication that the Whalers are watching. Corvo knows that, like him, they are waiting for a threat to reveal itself.

Emily pauses between sentences. In the brief hush, Corvo forces himself to breathe.

The tall stone counting house behind the stage is secured, every room emptied of civilians, ready to fall back to. Should the worst happen, Emily will be safe. Corvo exhales slowly, controlled, his hands gripped behind his back instead of at his front and ready to draw a weapon. Jessamine’s heartbeat is soft at his chest, a little faster than usual, in concert with his own.

‘We have lost more than we ever imagined we could, and yet here we stand.’ Emily’s voice echoes in the stillness of the square. Her fingertips are curled tightly at the edges of the wooden lectern Corvo insisted on. He told her that a lectern would look more authoritative.

He lied, a little. This is her first public appearance since the Lord Regent was deposed; he’s grasped at any barrier he can put between her and the crowd. Corvo runs his gaze over the gathered strangers again, watching for anything other than the cautious warmth that had lingered on Emily’s entrance to the Square.

 _They cheered so loudly when the grain market opened_ , Jessamine murmurs, and Corvo smiles, remembering the flush that the cold Harvest wind and the exuberant crowd had brought to Jessamine’s cheeks as she’d cut the ribbon. The Empress had been welcome then, a few months before the Plague had struck.

There’s no chance of such cheer from this crowd. All of them have lost friends and family in the last year. Now, a child sits in the highest office, a child whose mother presided over the rise of the Plague, who died under circumstances that few understand. That child is telling them that she’ll save Dunwall, and Corvo can’t blame them for having doubts. It’s not as if there’s much of Dunwall left to save, after all. Emily knows that she might not succeed, that Serkonos’ warships are waiting just offshore for the Plague to be done with them all. Dunwall’s citizens aren’t blind enough to have missed any of that.

Still, Emily’s made a start by establishing the Trade District as a safe zone, and her voice is steady and her head high as she speaks. A few of the sceptical faces are starting to shift to approval. Corvo can almost feel the guards behind him settling as Emily reaches the halfway point of her speech without disturbance.

‘The Plague may have brought Dunwall to its knees, but the Empire watches us,’ Emily says. ‘We will not fall and we _will not_ falter.’

A thunderclap tears through the air as if the sky is the skin of a beaten drum.

Corvo’s hand moves to the hilt of his blade but Emily glances back at him warningly. She made that clear: no visible danger, no interruption.

She says, somewhat more fiercely, as the crowd glances at the white-grey sky and murmurs worriedly of rain, ‘We will rise again, and return to our place at the heart of the Isles. Our natural philosophers, working alongside the Abbey of the Everyman, are coming close to a cure, and I have every faith that they will succeed – but we need stability to rebuild. We must work together, or we endanger everything we hold dear.’

A deafening cacophony of splintering wood and shattering glass erupts into the square.

Corvo steps up next to Emily. Her fingers are white on the lectern. The sound bounces back and forth across the crowd-filled space – he cannot tell where the explosion was, only that it was within a few streets. In the settling echoes, he hears a low roar that can’t be anything other than whale oil igniting. He follows Emily’s gaze to the plume of smoke rising beyond the western wall of light.

His gaze drops to the crowd – people shifting and muttering, seething like a pot about to boil over, already heading for the exits.

The wall of light is down, its steel jaws dark.

He has his hand on Emily’s shoulders, tugging her back from the podium, as a Whaler on the rooftops waves a black cloth over their head in a cross pattern: _Attack resolved, this area defenceless._ He pulls Emily to him.

‘We’re leaving,’ he tells her. He looks up at the guards. ‘Retreat to the counting house,’ he says crisply.

At the corner of his eye, the eastern wall of light flickers out. He wheels around to see that the Kaldwin blue cloth fluttering from its adjacent rooftops is being replaced abruptly with red – _incoming attack_.

Another explosion rips the air, still out of sight, and the crowd is shouting, now. Emily presses tight to Corvo’s side. ‘We need to do something!’ she hisses, as smoke billows in from the eastern street.

The crowd begins to heave and roll, citizens directionless and panicking. ‘Nothing you can do,’ Corvo answers. ‘Waverly’s people and the Whalers will handle it.’ People are pouring in through the smoke – agitators, Corvo thinks, here to stir up a riot in which one little girl disappearing might go unnoticed, and he turns back towards the street on the opposite side, where the first explosion came from.

Except that Emily cries out in horror, jerking away from him towards the edge of the stage, and he starts after her and suddenly sees what she’s seen.

The crowd pouring in isn’t people. Weepers sweep the square, more than Corvo has ever seen in one place, their movements jerky and raging, and where they clash with citizens the yells turn to screams.

Corvo lunges for Emily, pulling her away from the exposed edge of the stage. The Heart jumps at his chest; a boot scuffs behind him. He turns, pain slicing down his right arm as he meets the eyes of a guardsman who looks as surprised as he is.

Emily drops to the stage floor, out of his way, and Corvo grabs the guardsman’s arm, pushing him down in an armlock. The man cries out but doesn’t drop his blade, straining against the hold. Corvo twists, dropping him to the floor with the crack of a broken arm, giving himself space to draw his blade as he takes stock of the other guards on the stage. Five of them.

Well, that answers his concerns about the loyalties of the Tower Guard, at least – although a couple of them are glancing in confusion at the smoke rising from the streets behind him, so he presumes the explosions weren’t part of their plan. Corvo’s glad that he’s not the only one having that problem.

He weighs his opponents, unwilling to move away from Emily. They’ve all drawn their swords, but they’re clearly not in a hurry to rush him. They watch him, wary. He’s glad that in a fit of paranoia this morning he demanded that they leave their pistols at the Tower. Blades are clashing behind him – Waverly’s people against the Tower Guard? The note of the crowd is all fear and pain now. He can smell burning wood and flesh.

He breathes deep, aware of every twitch of his muscles. The way to the counting house is blocked. The back-up evacuation plan involves revealing his abilities in public.

His lunge for the nearest guard is precise and deadly. They always underestimate his speed and reach: his blade twists into the man’s stomach. The guardsman falls with a grunt. The others fan out around Corvo, raising their blades, and he’s glad that he can read fear on at least some of them.

He strikes again, engaging them, but with half of his focus on defending Emily and his right arm already throbbing, it doesn’t take long for one of them to get through his guard, scoring a deep cut on his right shoulder. He grits his teeth, willing himself to sink fully into the rhythm of the combat and ignore the injury, wishing he wasn’t missing the way the bonecharms burn whalesong into his flesh and bind his blood. He’s become used to the strength the Void grants him. Without it, his tactical judgements become gambles. He manages a block by the skin of his knuckles, almost losing his balance to the retaliatory blow. He doesn’t dare look behind him, at the crowd or at Emily.

Grim, he focuses on fighting the threat he can see.

The guard to his left drops. The body’s kicked off the stage by a masked Whaler, and another of Corvo’s opponents slumps with a crossbow bolt in the side of his neck. The remaining guard realises her situation and backs away, sword lowered as she glances between Corvo and the Whaler.

The Whaler fires. She drops with a thud.

Corvo rolls his right shoulder carefully, wincing at the pain, and switches his blade to his left hand. The counting house doors are closed. It looks deserted – no sign of the squads that should have been there to defend the Empress.

The Whaler huffs, the sound hollow in the mask filter as he reloads his wristbow. ‘You need to leave,’ he says as Corvo holds out a hand to Emily, his eyes scanning the chaos of the square – heaving, surging, screaming bodies.

Emily stands, brushing dust off her black breeches. ‘Thank you,’ she says, nodding briefly in the Whaler’s direction.

‘The western exit’s clear,’ the Whaler says. ‘No one’s going to try to cross the fires there at ground level.’

Corvo barely hears him, bile rising in his throat as he stares at the square. Despite the efforts of Waverly’s guards and the Whalers, citizens are being killed and infected wherever he turns. And he has to get Emily out through that.

‘There must be a hundred weepers out there,’ he says.

‘This is my fault,’ Emily says softly, sounding far too much like her mother.

‘Emily – ‘ he starts, searching for some words of hope, something that will calm her enough to make her listen to him and agree to leave.

‘Where are my Tower Guard, Corvo?’ she seethes. ‘And the Overseers? What is Martin _doing_? Everyone was meant to be _safe_ here!’

She’s right, Corvo realises. There’s no sign of anyone in either uniform among the throng, although there are knots of City Watch who must have run here when they heard the explosions. _Fuck_ Teague Martin – next time Corvo’s just going to leave him to die.

‘This is no time for assigning blame!’ the Whaler snaps at them, pushing his sleeve back down over his dart cuff. ‘I’m not coming with you, I have friends down there. The boatman’s waiting at the West Tyvian Company docks. I don’t need to tell you to stay off the streets and out of sight, Lord Protector.’

‘Understood,’ Corvo replies. He has no intention of going to the docks.

The Whaler jumps down from the stage and into the chaos, and they’re alone.

If he can’t trust Martin, it seems unlikely that he can trust Waverly, which throws Daud and the Whalers into question too. They seem to be on his side, but so did the Tower Guard until they tried to stab him in the back. But it’ll be easier if his supposed allies think they know where he is. Corvo takes Emily’s hand and they hurry to the edge of the stage, dropping down into shadow. From down here, the square is obscured by smoke and people, struggling and pushing.

The western entrance is deserted. As the Whaler said, the street is thick with smoke and flame. It’s also piled with horribly burned corpses.

Emily claps her hand over her mouth, and Corvo tugs her close to him as he hurries past the abandoned guard post. The buildings are burning fiercely, the view to the other side lost in the smoke.

‘I’ll need to carry you,’ he tells Emily. She jumps onto his back, locking her legs around his waist, shifting her weight to his left to avoid his injured arm.

He clenches his fist, gathering the Void to him, and jumps up to the first window ledge and into the building. Emily shudders as the Void blinks around them, holding tighter as he jumps again, and again, further into the building and up, away from the smoke. A half-ruined floor shifts beneath his feet as they land, and he looks around for the next jump, waiting for his energy to return.

When he moves forward, the floor groans and gives way, bellying inwards. Emily screams, and Corvo curls himself around her as they fall.

Something slams into his head. In the blink of an eye, sound and movement vanish, and he can’t feel Emily in his arms.

 

He’s flat on his back, staring up at the blue-violet of the Void. The collapsing wall is frozen in time around him, angled so that the vertical surface he was sliding down is level with what would be the ground, if there was any ground here.

Jessamine’s heart beats wild in his pocket, wordless. He pulls himself to his feet, looks around for a way off the tableau, but nothing’s close enough to blink to.

‘This is not a good time!’ he yells, although he can’t see the black-eyed bastard. Still, he has to be around here somewhere; it’s not as if there’s anywhere else he _could_ be.

The Void swallows Corvo’s voice without even a whisper of an echo, returns it with hollow whalesong from a leviathan the size of a ship, drifting high above him. He closes his eyes, tries to focus on how it feels to be somewhere with air against his skin, with noise other than the hiss of whalebone.

‘I didn’t bring you here, Corvo,’ the Outsider says, and Corvo turns to see him sitting on a fragment of wall, one leg hooked over the other. ‘You’re here because your unconscious mind draws itself to the Void.’

‘Then draw me back out again,’ Corvo growls. ‘Emily’s in danger.’

The Outsider gives him a look, dark brows raised just slightly. It’s an expression that Corvo’s fairly sure he’s seen on Emily recently, and isn’t _that_ an alarming parallel.

‘Please?’ he tries.

‘You won’t wake up any sooner.’

‘Oh, so I might as well keep you company?’ Corvo snaps. ‘ _You_ said all of this rubbish was over and done with, so forgive me if I’m not particularly keen on your company just yet, when it’s becoming increasingly apparent that that bastard Martin is still out for Emily’s blood.’

The Leviathan’s blank look goes on just a bit too long, and Corvo cocks his head to one side. ‘You’re not telling me something,’ he says. ‘I assumed the absence of Overseers at the guard posts meant that Martin had abandoned his pledge to Emily. Am I wrong?’

‘Shortly the High Overseer will no doubt be assuming that you have abandoned him,’ the Outsider replies flatly. ‘In truth, the both of you might do to look to your own people before making judgements. You have a terrible habit of making your choices long before you have all the facts.’

‘Forgive us for being insufficiently ineffable,’ Corvo replies dryly, even as he starts going through the Tower staff in his head. ‘We do what we can with what we have.’

Ada White has supported the Kaldwins since before Jessamine took the throne, and Corvo has no doubt she’d tell him if she wanted something done differently.

General Tobias has had all the opportunities he could need to discredit Corvo, and Emily with him – instead he’s protected Corvo from being discovered by Overseers, and hidden how badly Corvo’s dealt with effectively ruling Dunwall.

(The Outsider looks almost irritated, now, and Corvo allows himself to admit to a certain amount of satisfaction at having riled the creature.)

General Turnbull? Corvo can’t help feeling the man doesn’t have the initiative to lead a coup, but he’d probably have said the same about Havelock, and look where that left him.

 _Never too much ambition or too little cause for petty men_ , Jessamine says sadly, and Corvo’s struck with sudden homesickness for the curves of her fingertips, the brightness of her eyes, for all the things of her that he’ll never have again. It’s then, finally, that the Void darkens and Corvo feels the wrench of his mind back to the air.

 

‘ _… up she rises, early in the morning._ ’

He recognises the voice first – it’s Emily’s, thin and quiet and shaking despite herself, and echoing just slightly beneath a creaking like a ship in a storm. Then the tune, a shanty every Dunwaller knows even if they’ve never been to sea, its verses infinite.

Finally he clocks the words, and he wonders muzzily where Emily learned to flatten her vowels and roll her Rs like a Morley man. And with the words comes a realisation of _pain_ , something lying heavy across his chest and stomach, trapping his left arm beneath him.

An attempt to move gets him a warning flare of fire from his ribs to match the pressure in his head. He opens his eyes to white daylight and a towering mass of torn building stretching above him that groans ominously, and Emily’s singing stops.

‘Corvo!’ she cries, and he realises she’s resting her fingers on his outstretched hand, and squeezes them tightly, turning his head to look up at her. She’s sitting beside him, knees drawn close to her chest. Her face and hands are smeared with and blood and dirt, but she doesn’t seem to be in pain. She returns the squeeze of his hand, wipes her face hastily as if he might not have seen the tear tracks on her cheeks. Corvo squashes a flare of guilt, smiles at her reassuringly, this brave, pretty little girl he loves as his Empress and his own.

‘I’m fine,’ he grates out, as truthfully as he can. There’s a lot of pain, but as far as he can tell none of it’s the kind that leads to lasting damage, although he can tell his headache isn’t going away any time soon. ‘Just a bit of a blow to the head, that’s all.’

He’s lying on a metal grating, part of a stairwell. Behind Emily, the steps disappear into twisted iron and crumbled brick. He glances down the length of his body – what he can see of it. There’s a mass of ruined wood and brick on top of him, the main pressure clearly from a single beam the width of his thigh; thank the Void it landed on him rather than Emily.

‘You’re fine?’ She’s looking at him skeptically.

‘This is heavy, but I’ve not broken anything,’ he clarifies. ‘Are you hurt?’

She grimaces, scrubbing at her eyes. ‘Not badly. I fell near the rats, but I got up here before they got more than a couple of bites in, and they can’t reach us here.’

Corvo swallows the sudden rush of his heartbeat. Emily drinks her elixir every morning; even if she was exposed to the Plague, she’ll be fine. Still, the two of them aren’t exactly in the clear.

‘Where are we?’ He twists a little, trying to see where they’ve landed.

‘A basement,’ Emily tells him. ‘A level above the floor, and the steps are broken below us.’ She lets go of his hand to stand up and reach towards the cascade of rubble above them, but shakes her head as she barely manages to touch where the ceiling should be.

In theory, she could climb the wreckage on top of him to get out, but he won’t make her do that unless he has to. Still, she’s young, not stupid; she knows that as much as he does.

‘Can you move?’ she asks.

He sets his jaw. ‘Not yet. Can you see any other way out of here?’

‘No.’ A pause, and then, ‘Can you do your blink thing to get out?’

He can’t move his left hand, but he tries anyway, focussing on the Void. There’s a buzzing in the back of his head, but none of the sudden awareness of potential movement that he usually gets, and when he holds onto it his head starts pounding even worse, the edges of his vision blackening. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Em, you need to get out of here before more of it comes down.’

‘Not without you,’ she tells him, and she turns her attention back to the rubble on top of him to inform him that they won’t be speaking about this any more. Corvo wants to argue, but he’s too dizzy to muster the words. His shirt’s damp with blood at the shoulder, he realises. He stares upwards as Emily picks bricks and slabs of plaster from the top of the pile, resuming her quiet song. She throws the pieces down to the floor below them, and every so often there’s a squeak of furious alarm. Smoke is drifting above them, but Corvo can see no sign of fire.

Of course, what he _can_ see from down here is limited to metal, brick, and Emily.

‘Attano! Lady Emily!’

Emily crouches down like something hunted, peering up at the gap as the voice drifts down to them.

It’s a man calling, but Corvo can’t tell much more than that. No Whaler mask filtering it. Heavy bootsteps are moving through the ruined house, more than one pair, and the call comes again. ‘Lady Emily! Lord Protector!’

‘We’re down here!’ Emily calls suddenly, and Corvo stares at her as the sounds of searchers move towards them. ‘I can’t move all this by myself, and I’m not leaving you,’ she tells him, and she kneels beside him, letting him clench her hand in his. He wants to give her his blade, but he can’t even reach the damn thing.

‘Over here!’ The voice is suddenly much closer, calling to someone else. A few loose fragments of plaster drift down as boots crunch at the edge, and Corvo sees the voice’s owner peering down.

He’s in Whaler black, but bloody and bruised and with no mask, and alarmingly young; he doesn’t look in a much better state than Emily. He smiles when he sees them, though, sudden and startling, although even as he speaks the smile fades.

‘Thank the Void you’re alive, Rinaldo said he’d sent you this way but then I saw the whole thing collapse and – ‘ He cuts himself off. ‘Are either of you badly hurt?’

‘Corvo can’t get out,’ Emily says. ‘Can you move this?’

The boy looks over the rubble and frowns a little, then glances back and up over his shoulder. ‘I’d struggle to lift all that at the best of times,’ he says to whoever’s standing there, and despite the admission of weakness his voice is cool, guarded. ‘May be best if you do it.’ He stands up and moves back, and the person who steps into the light is Daud, face bloody and coat torn.

Corvo remembers the Outsider’s oblique advice, and squeezes Emily’s hand to reassure her.

Daud kneels, examining the situation with a deep scowl. ‘That’s a lot to lift with a tethering. Tried transversing out, Corvo?’ he asks finally.

‘You know, I hadn’t thought of that, maybe I should give it a go,’ Corvo replies tightly, his voice as even as he can manage.

Daud takes the hint and the sarcasm with good grace and a quick nod, moving around the edge of the hole. ‘All right. Empress, will you let Thomas come and get you? I don’t want to drop it all on you.’ He seems to be expecting the short shake of Emily’s head, already adjusting his position to account for her as he acknowledges it. ‘Understood. Move to the side as much as you can, then. Corvo, this will hurt.’

It does. It hurts a lot, but it’s worth all of it when he’s finally free, standing at the lip of the hole with Emily hugging him as tightly as she dares. Daud and the boy – Thomas, and wasn’t that the name of the one who signed the contract on Emily? – are arguing in silent hand signals, and finally Thomas sighs and bows his head. Daud turns to Corvo and Emily.

‘My Whalers and the City Guard are still fighting the weepers here, but it’s hardly a defensible space. Since we don’t know what’s happening at Dunwall Tower, and you are in absolutely no condition to be Lord Protectoring anyone by yourself, I suggest we all go and join Waverly and Martin at Kaldwin’s Bridge. Won’t hurt to have Joplin and Sokolov nearby, either.’

Lacking any other plan, and his head hurting too much to think of one, Corvo agrees, and Emily follows his lead. They start to pick their way through the blackened brick and wood towards the street, and Corvo sees Daud glance back at Thomas with something that almost looks like guilt. He looks closer at the dark patches on the boy’s clothes, wonders what Martin’s men did to him. Or, he remembers, perhaps not _Martin’s_ men.

Rogue Overseers are not an idea Corvo wants to have to contemplate, but the Outsider’s words do suggest that Martin’s not as in control of the Abbey as he thinks. Wonderful.

‘Wait, Kaldwin’s Bridge?’ Corvo asks as he realises what Daud said, frowning as he helps Emily over the remains of a wall. ‘Martin and Waverly were sent to Holger Square.’

‘Who told you that?’ Daud asks, looking back over his shoulder.

‘General Tobias.’

‘I fucking _knew_ it,’ Thomas mutters, kicking at rubble.

‘You mean the one who signed the order telling them to go to Kaldwin’s Bridge?’ Daud says tersely, and Tobias will be in Coldridge for the rest of his _life_ when Corvo finds him.

Daud takes the answer from his expression, and clenches his left fist. A moment later there’s a shimmer of black and a Whaler appears beside him, masked and holding a long, bloodied knife by her side.

‘Master?’ she asks.

‘Roberts. I need you to go to the West Tyvian docks and tell Beechworth that we’re coming to him. Then get to the laboratory at Kaldwin’s Bridge, fast as you can. Take someone with you. The High Overseer and Waverly Boyle should be there. Find them, and Anton Sokolov and Piero Joplin, and get them somewhere you can keep an eye on them all. If you see Abraham Tobias, put him under immediately – and hide him. We’ll follow; come out to the docks under the bridge if you can’t get Martin and Waverly out.’

‘Will do, sir.’ When she disappears, the Void shimmers after her.

There’s a shout from the street in front of them.

Corvo looks up to see a man in the uniform of the Tower Guard staring at the spot where Roberts disappeared from, his gun raised and pointed towards the now-empty space – no, towards _Emily_.

‘Corvo!’ she screams.

He sees a burst of movement out of the corner of his eye, and suddenly Thomas is there in front of her. Corvo hears the sickening crack before he quite understands what’s happening, and then Thomas is screaming as his outflung arm bursts into flame.


	12. Cecelia: West Tyvian Docks

Cecelia blows on her freezing hands and bundles them back into her coat pockets, throwing a glare up at the docks from her hunched seat on the Amaranth’sbench. Frankly, she’s past caring what happens in Morley Square - the little Empress and her Protector can bleed out in a gutter as far as she’s concerned - but she knows perfectly well that if it all goes wrong, Thomas will die in the Overseers’ hands. So she’s staying here on this forgotten little dock with Samuel, just in case someone important needs a quick getaway. None of those in the Tower gives a damn about Thomas, except where he might have been a means to an end. Daud seems to care a little more, but it hasn’t stopped him throwing Thomas to the Overseers, even if he says he’ll be safe. As if anyone comes out of Holger Square’s cells “safe” unless they have relatives who can buy them out.

She’d hoped to make it different, once. They both had, she and Thomas, and then the scheming in the Tower had spilled out onto the streets in a wave of sharp teeth and filthy fur, and all of their aspirations had sunk lower and lower until finally they’d drowned in the muck of just trying to survive. They’d had such dreams; Thomas would have been a member of parliament, taking advantage of the Empress’ new sponsorship programme, whilst Cecelia would have been a lawyer, working to make the law apply to everyone, not just people who couldn’t afford to make it go away. Then the Plague had hit, and overnight their families and homes had been on the other side of quarantine barriers that still stand now. The Academy had closed in the first month, citing the health risks of so many people crowded together, and with it the student halls.

They’d stuck together at first, in a group of legal students who’d all assured each other that it would be over in a matter of months. Then one of the others had got sick, and Thomas, Ivanov and Cecelia had left in the night, fled to the supposedly abandoned Flooded District with two looted pistols and a sword only Thomas knew how to use.

Billie Lurk had found them on their first night there. She’d brought them to Daud’s office, and Daud had made them an offer, promised to take care of them and teach them to survive if they took his Mark and worked for him.

Sometimes, Cecelia wishes she’d accepted. Other times, she wishes she’d dragged Thomas away with her.

Yesterday, even with Thomas’s panic fresh in her mind, she’d let Rinaldo run her all over the House with this task and that, mostly so that she could stay out of the rain. She hadn’t even realised he was keeping her busy until it was too late to go after Thomas. Then Daud had called her into his office, shut the door behind her, and calmly, tiredly, asked her if he should be expecting witches this time or if Thomas had a bit more sense than Billie.

She’d stared at him, trying to work out if he really thought Thomas would do that to him – but then, of course, Billie had, and Billie had been his second far longer than Thomas. ‘It’s not like that,’ she’d said. ‘You said it was nothing to do with you. He came to you about Emily and asked if we should take the contract and find out who was offering it so that we could let Corvo know, and you said no.’

He hadn’t disagreed, or cursed at Thomas, and this whole thing was going to be a lot easier if they weren’t trying to hide everything from him, so she’d told him.

And then he’d told her that the High Overseer was waiting for Thomas, and that was when she’d started shouting.

They’re going to get Thomas as soon as this is all over. Cecelia would go by herself, but she’s not stupid enough to think she’ll be able to get a heretic out of the Abbey’s cells by herself. So she’s waiting, and breathing carefully so the cold air doesn’t rasp at her raw throat, and praying that Thomas is unhurt. Hopefully that stupid Mark on his hand is good for something and the black-eyed boy will listen.

Opposite her, Samuel’s watching over the river from his place by the Amaranth’s tiller, apparently untroubled by the snapping cold of the wind or Cecelia’s silent seething. It had been a surprise to see him waiting for her in the place Daud had told her to be, but he’d just smiled, and reminded her that everyone in Dunwall has business on the river sooner or later.

Thunder cracks distantly, and Cecelia grimaces at the grey cloud swarming in from the bay. ‘Perfect, now we get rain as well as wind,’ she grumbles.

Samuel has his head cocked as he listens, and he’s frowning in puzzlement. ‘The rain’s coming in all right, but it’s coming up the river,’ he says. ‘That wasn’t from the bay, it was from the city.’

The Amaranth rocks as Cecelia stands, jumping up to the jetty to get a clear line of sight. Sometimes the ability to transverse might be useful, she thinks ruefully as she climbs up onto the nearest stack of crates.

When she’s higher up, she can see the smoke rising, thick and dark.

‘Something’s burning. Something big,’ she says, her chest tight. Ivanov is over there, and Roberts, and Corvo and Emily, and maybe she would even miss Daud a little. More importantly, if anything happens to Emily, this unstable restoration she’s begun will plunge back into chaos, and this time Cecelia’s not sure it’ll be possible to recover.

Samuel’s calmly checking around the boat, loosening the ropes and counting the bullet and bolt packs he keeps stocked. Cecelia keeps her eyes on the widening stream of smoke as it billows up, gut roiling as she wonders what the explosion hit. Surely the wooden stage wouldn’t burn that fiercely? But then maybe it’s misdirection, something to give Emily time to get away. Corvo’s a smart man, and Daud’s a sneaky one; between them they’ll have planned a dozen ways out.

A few minutes later, another explosion sounds, and smoke rises from a second point. Samuel looks up briefly, shakes his head, and sits back down.

 _More than a dozen ways out_ , Cecelia tells herself firmly. Roberts and Ivanov are too smart to get themselves caught in all this, and Thomas is far away from it all, and there honestly aren’t any other people left that Cecelia would miss; the Plague got there first.

She’s watching the rooftops when the Whalers come in, their boots loud on brick and metal as they abandon any call for stealth. The shadow patterns they leave in the wake of their transversals are ones that Cecelia recognises, has been watching for: that’s Ivanov, dark traces swirling like an oil slick, and there’s Roberts, with the shimmering black fragments like metal dust. Cecelia climbs down from her crates as they appear on the jetty beside the boat.

‘They were attacked at Morley Square, tons of weepers and the Tower Guard,’ Roberts tells them quickly, not bothering to remove her mask or conceal her heavy tone, and Samuel curses quietly. Cecelia’s heart rises into her throat. This cannot be over, not so quickly.

‘Emily?’ she asks.

‘The little lady and the Lord Protector are all right, although he’s in no condition to fight,’ Roberts replies. ‘Daud’s bringing them and Thomas here — your boy’s fine too, Cee. Me and Vasily are going to Kaldwin’s Bridge, Daud reckons General Tobias’ll be going after the High Overseer and Lady Boyle to round off the morning’s fuckery.’

Ivanov is hanging back, ready to leave again, and Cecelia’s head is spinning. _Thomas_? What in the Void was Thomas doing at Morley Square? Roberts turns to leave, and Cecelia shakes herself and pulls her bag hastily from the back of the boat. She grabs her knives and the wristbow she’s been practising with since the Hound Pits, strapping it on and sliding it up the wide sleeve of her coat. ‘Hold up!’ she calls as Roberts clenches her fist.

Roberts looks over her shoulder at Cecelia then back to Ivanov beside her. She turns, folding her arms.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Cecelia says.

‘Like Void you are,’ the Whaler snorts, although her tone isn’t unfriendly. ‘This is dangerous, Cee, we’re not dragging a fucking civvy around.’

Cecelia buckles the wrist cuff of bolts she lifted from Piero and pulls her sleeve over it, stepping out of the boat. ‘Piero, Sokolov and Martin will recognise me, and I can pass as a lab assistant in these clothes, which you certainly can’t,’ she tells Roberts. ‘You’ll have to sneak in and out, and if they’re guarded by Overseers you won’t even be able to get a message to them, and they might not trust you either. I can be far more use with you than sitting in a boat twiddling my thumbs just so Daud knows I’m not causing trouble.’

‘I did not know you were ever not causing trouble,’ Ivanov says dryly, but he shrugs at Roberts. He was at the Academy with Cecelia and Thomas; he knows she can handle herself in a bar fight, at the very least. ‘Why not? She has a good point.’

Roberts raises her hands as if to fire a couple of signs at him, then lowers them, presumably as she realises Cecelia knows most of their hand signals. ‘Fine, it’s your fucking funeral,’ she says, turning to Cecelia. ‘But don’t do anything stupid.’

Ivanov opens his arms as if for a hug, and Cecelia rolls her eyes at him but steps into it anyway. He squeezes her and rests his cheek on her hair for a moment of reassurance, and then he’s swinging her around onto his back, and the warm-dry- _endless_ of the Void blinks into place around her as he transverses.

All is still for an instant, and the shadows on the dark rock beneath them jitter and swell.

Sound and movement and cold rush back in. Ivanov’s running over the flat roof of a warehouse, and this time Cecelia doesn’t even see the Void when he transverses. The sudden shift makes her feel dizzy; Thomas usually goes slower when they’re together, but of course there’s no time now.

The Bridge looms ahead of them, and Ivanov drops back a little to give Roberts time to find a path ahead. Cecelia catches glimpses of golden masks and dark uniforms, rusted railings and crumbling brick and grey steel interspersed with the Void. The Bridge jumps closer, closer, and then they’re climbing around and over the main supports, the Wrenhaven opening out beneath them, and Roberts is waiting on a platform of wooden planks, her mask off as she drinks from a blue vial.

Cecelia jumps down and lets Ivanov gulp down his own vial, walks to the edge of the flooring and looks out.

Smoke is hanging thickly over Morley Square, the wind tumbling it slowly away upriver. The afternoon light is dull and heavy, and when Cecelia glances towards the darkening sky over the bay, she catches the first drops of rain on her face and feels suddenly so close to the sky that if she reaches out, she fancies she might touch it.

‘Decent view from up here, isn’t it,’ Roberts says behind her. Cecelia nods, and turns away.

‘Ready?’ she asks.

Ivanov stretches, and crouches to let her climb back onto his back, and they’re off again, heading over the guard outposts and crumbling houses to the other side of the bridge.

They stop in the top floor of a derelict building, close enough to Sokolov’s home that they can hear the conversation of the Overseers on guard below.

Roberts makes the Whaler signal for quiet, a hand over the lower half of her mask, and motions to the iron walkway a little above them, where two Overseers are patrolling, no music boxes in sight. Beyond them, the glass and metal of the laboratory sits sullen in the grey light. Roberts puts a hand to her throat, motions Ivanov to one Overseer and herself to the other, Cecelia to stay put. Then she raises three fingers, folds them down one by one, and on the third both of the Whalers are gone in a shimmer of black.

On the walkway, the Overseers struggle briefly against the arms around their necks before falling still. Ivanov comes back to collect Cecelia, repeating the sign for quiet, and the two of them crouch low on the walkway as Roberts makes her way over the roof, checking the room inside. Four fingers, and Ivanov nods and brings Cecelia up to join them. She feels dizzy on the slippery roof, and kneels down to peer through the frosted glass.

Piero and Sokolov are standing either side of a table of notes, arguing quietly but animatedly, whilst two Overseers stand just outside the work area watching them. As Ivanov and Roberts move over to the door on the far side of the room, where two others are patrolling, Sokolov slams a clipboard down on the table.

‘Try that on a patient and you’ll be ministering to a corpse in even shorter order than otherwise!’ he growls at Piero.

The other man looks vaguely affronted as he adjusts his glasses. ‘Now, I’m not sure—’

‘“Not sure”, you’re _never_ ruddy sure, are you!’ Sokolov bellows, and he seizes a ceramic bowl on the table, throwing it at the wall with an almighty crash before continuing his tirade, demonstrating it with an impromptu lecture chalked on the board behind the desks whilst Piero stutters increasingly angry objections. Cecelia follows him through the glass in fascination, amazed she’d never heard them yelling from the pub if this is their normal standard of interaction.

She’s almost ready to cheer Piero on when Sokolov stops mid sentence, the aggression draining from his stance like water. He turns calmly from the board, arms folded.

‘About time too,’ he grumbles as the two Overseers fall unconscious to the floor, revealing Roberts and Ivanov. ‘I’m all out of things to throw, so you two had better be with the Lord Protector.’

‘He’s on his way,’ Roberts says amicably. ‘Good distraction; thanks.’

Piero has removed his glasses and is polishing them furiously. ‘It was entirely possible you could have handled the situation yourselves, but a little vigorous debate does clear the air somewhat,’ he observes, placing them carefully on his nose. ‘I take it that you’re not just passing through? Will you be freeing the Lady Boyle and the High Overseer, or are we leaving that to Corvo?’

‘Corvo’s not in a good way right now,’ Roberts says, shaking her head. ‘Their main target seems to have been Emily; there was—’

The sky rumbles, and the sudden downpour of the cloudburst on the roof is almost deafening. Cecelia hunches her head inside her jacket and scrabbles across the slick glass towards the laboratory door, makes her way through raised herb beds to the work area. The last part of the room is sectioned off with iron bars, split into three cells; she jumps as somebody moves in one, and realises she’s looking at one of Sokolov’s experimentation subjects, wandering aimlessly in the small cell.

The other cells’ occupants are motionless; one leans against the far wall, staring at the roof with eyes as bloody as their hands. Cecelia stays on the other side of the table, glad of the heavy padlocks on the cell doors.

‘—obviously realised something had gone wrong with his plan at that point, and decided to make the best of a bad job and keep Lady Boyle here as a hostage,’ Sokolov is saying, his voice raised to make himself heard above the hammering rain. ‘The Overseers are apparently behind him because Teague Martin is a heretic, although how they got that idea I can’t imagine. The man would spit in the Outsider’s face if he could, and has not an iota of philosophy in his soul besides. Ah, Cecelia! I’d wondered if we’d be seeing you again after that disaster at the Hound Pits.’

‘I’m good at getting out of tight spots, Doctor,’ she tells him, making herself ignore the people in the cells. She’s been pretending not to see dead bodies for long enough; she can manage a little longer. ‘Speaking of which, do we have a plan?’

Piero wrings his hands, staring down at his notes. ‘Delay the good General until aid can be acquired?’ he suggests. ‘Sadly, we don’t have the materials up here for another non-lethal arc generator. I do honestly wonder if I should start carrying them around.’

‘Don’t be fatalistic,’ Sokolov says firmly. ‘And aid from where? We must assume that the Tower has fallen to the Guard, and that the tussle in the Square which our friend has so kindly filled us in on has left our primary forces wounded. That leaves Captain Curnow, whose people may or may not have been infiltrated, or injured by weepers and former allies. I fear the only aid to be guaranteed will come solely from Daud and Attano, and given that General Tobias has instructed his Overseers to turn their music boxes at random intervals, those two may be of very little assistance.’

Cecelia would like to have some peace at some point in her life, maybe even a couple of weeks when people are not trying to kill her, or her friends, or even the Empress. Just a couple. She doesn’t feel it’s asking much.

She pulls herself up to sit on the nearest wooden rack, and Roberts claps her on the back. ‘Good luck you refused the boss’s Mark really, Cee. Fancy scouting the place out? We need to know how many music boxes there are down there, and if one of us goes we’ll fall out the rafters soon as they crank a handle.’

‘You say that as if you think I’m going to say no,’ Cecelia notes. Thomas might be free now, but if Tobias comes out on top of this, Cecelia’s not enough of a fool to think he won’t come looking for Thomas. ‘Anything else?’

Sokolov scratches his beard. ‘The location of the hostages would also be useful, and any details you might glean of General Tobias's future plans. Fortunately, the instructions to prioritise my work still stand and I have a habit of leaving reagents in odd places, so I can draw up a list that will get you into every room of the house, to overhear as you may. The Wall of Light chargers are in my quarters, by the blackboard; stop by them before you enter the house proper.’ He glances at Roberts, who shrugs to indicate that she has nothing to add.

Cecelia nods, pulls her cap down a little and adjusts the cuff of her jacket so that her wristbow is hidden. She pushes herself off the rack, ready to go – and stops short as Roberts bars her way with one arm and a noise of frustrated irritation, the Whaler fumbling with one of the pouches on her belt.

‘Hang on just a tick,’ Roberts says. ‘Got something that’ll help.’ There’s a suspiciously amused noise from Ivanov, who’s watching them with folded arms. Cecelia suspects, not for the first time, that the real reason the Whalers wear masks is so that no one can see their expressions.

The object Roberts pulls from her pouch is hammered from rusting iron and tipped with carved bone, and when she presses it into Cecelia’s hand she expects the world to change, somehow. It doesn’t. Thomas has described to her the way that bonecharms sing, shivering down into bone, but there’s none of that. It’s oddly disappointing.

‘It’ll make it easier to go unnoticed,’ Roberts explains, her voice unreadable as she lowers her arm, letting Cecelia go. ‘People’s eyes just slide right off you unless you try to catch their attention. There’s a hook on the back to fix it to your belt, but I’d put it in your pocket.’ 

‘Thanks,’ Cecelia says, stuffing the thing into her inside jacket pocket. For a moment her fingers are pressed hard against it, and her vision shudders and darkens at the edges, as if the Void is trying to enter the world through her eyes. Alarmed, she drops the thing into the pocket, and the dull daylight returns.

Sometimes she forgets that the Whalers are what they are, but they never fail to remind her.

‘I do not need to tell you that the Overseers should not see it,’ Ivanov says. ‘Their minds are very closed about these things.’

The walkway outside is empty except for the pouring rain. Cecelia tucks Sokolov’s note into her jacket and makes a run for it, dashing down the stairs and into the main building.

Despite the discordant strains from Sokolov devices, she’s already attuned herself to the three Wall chargers and gone through what must be Sokolov’s sleeping quarters (with a camp bed for Piero) before she encounters her first Overseer. The man almost walks past her on his patrol down the corridor, and she waves the list at him, noticing with interest the way he shakes his head as if to clear her from his sight before she has his attention.

‘Another list of demands from the doctor; he says he insists that I find all of it myself, as if I haven’t got enough to do,’ she grumbles.

The Overseer, thank the Void, sounds ever so slightly amused. ‘That sounds like the good physician,’ he says. ‘Stay out of the parlour, and be aware that we are all on edge.’

A faked glance down at the list, and Cecelia sighs theatrically and takes a chance. ‘I’m to collect some notes from the parlour; he won’t be happy if I don’t bring them back. What’s going on down there, anyway?’

‘One of my brothers found a heretical charm in the High Overseer’s belongings, and the Lady Boyle insisted on defending him,’ the Overseer says. ‘General Tobias is here to witness on behalf of the throne. Martin will be taken to the Tower for the Empress’s judgement.’

Deception all around, then, Cecelia thinks wryly, abruptly hyper aware of the heretical charm in her pocket. ‘Goodness,’ she says. ‘Thank you for the advice; I’ll steer well clear of that.’

‘Always wise,’ the Overseer agrees.

Cecelia decides not to send him up to Roberts, and sets off to look for the parlour. There are plenty of other Overseers who actually deserve Roberts — no need to go wasting the ones who seem to be almost sensible. Keeping her list prominently visible and occasionally waving it at Overseers who look about to ask questions, she heads downstairs and begins to wander around the perimeter of the building, appropriating a basket to carry the few items she picks up that Sokolov’s asked for.

‘General, isn’t it about time we moved to the Tower?’

The voice is Waverly’s, her irritation almost tangible from the floor above as Cecelia climbs the broad steps opposite the main entrance. The reply is inaudible, a man’s voice pitched low. Cecelia waves her list and basket at the Overseers standing at the top of the steps, and turns right down a corridor leading upwards. There are windows further up that must open onto the parlour, and as she comes level with them Waverly speaks again.

‘Do be reasonable, Abraham – of course he’s not going to confess to anything, the man can barely breathe.’

‘That doesn’t have to be an obstacle.’ An Overseer’s voice, echoing in bronze.

A little further along the corridor and Cecelia can see into the parlour. She pushes herself against the wall, willing Roberts’ charm to work, and looks in.

The length of the room is dominated by a dining table, and she can see six Overseers, one with a Sokolov device. Martin and Waverly are sitting facing her, Martin pale and Waverly levelling a glare colder than Tyvian ice at an Overseer seated near the door. The man who must be General Tobias is standing at the head of the table, arms folded.

‘I hope I don’t have to remind you, Vice Overseer Barton, that the High Overseer answers to the Empress herself,’ Waverly says, disapproval ringing in her voice.

Martin puts a hand to his throat and coughs, grimacing and pulling a black handkerchief from his coat pocket. As he touches it to his mouth, he looks up, his eyes meeting Cecelia’s for a heart-stopping moment before they slide away – and then back again, narrowing ever so slightly. She forces herself to stay absolutely still. Martin blinks, and then closes his eyes.

The next coughing attack bends him double, and he grabs at Waverly’s shoulder, pulling her closer to him as if for support. When he draws back, handkerchief held firmly to his mouth, Waverly looks straight up at Cecelia. She casually rests both of her hands on the table in front of her, fiddling with her rings for a moment and then looking down at them. Cecelia’s eyes follow hers.

 _[Item of value]_ , Waverly’s hands shape slowly in the Whalers’ sign language, and Cecelia is frankly shocked at Daud’s apparent inability to keep secrets, but she nods slowly and keeps watching. [ _Negative modifier_ : _steal_ ]. Waverly’s face twists a little at what she obviously considers to be an inadequate translation. [ _Hostile_ ]. A subtle nod of her head at the Overseer she named as Barton. [ _Caution_ ].

‘I still find it difficult to believe that there’s so much fuss about a single trinket found in the High Overseer’s rooms,’ Waverly says then. Cecelia realises what she’s been told and moves towards the Overseer at the doorway, pulling the bone charm from her pocket and sliding it into her sleeve, gritting her teeth against the moment of shivering, singing Void. ‘Is he not supposed to study the things so that the Abbey can better understand how to identify heretics?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but Dr Sokolov sent me to pick up his notes on whale oil and krust venom emulsion,’ Cecelia tells the Overseer quietly.

The Overseer looks to Tobias, who looks up and smiles. ‘Further supplies for Sokolov?’ he asks genially, as if he’s not planned the murder of Void knows how many at Morley Square. ‘Of course, of course; I know how absent-minded such genius can be, and his work is naturally a priority.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Cecelia says, bobbing a quick curtsey as she ducks inside. The note says it’s a blue folder on the side table, which means she needs to walk past Barton’s chair.

It’s simple enough to hook her toe on a chair leg and send herself and the contents of her basket sprawling over him, her hand hooking the bone charm in the fold of a pocket beneath his coat as she pretends to extricate herself. The Overseers in the room move towards them, but Barton pushes her off him roughly, and she doesn’t need to fake the apologies and excuses tumbling from her lips as he stands. She’s just planted a bone charm on an Overseer; she could be imprisoned or worse for this if he realises.

But he doesn’t seem to – he brushes himself down, shaking his head at her, and moves his chair away so that she can pick up the reagents she’s already collected, scattered on the rug.

‘No harm done, but look where you’re going in future, girl,’ he tells her.

Cecelia picks up the folder she was supposedly sent for and leaves through the same door she came in by. She glances back under the guise of righting the basket she’s carrying, catches Waverly’s [ _Work complete]_ out of the corner of her eye. The way back up is mercifully almost free of patrolling Overseers. She’s liberated an oilskin from Sokolov’s study and is just bracing herself to face the rain again when the door opens and Roberts almost runs into her.

‘They're waiting for us down below the bridge,’ she says. ‘Hold tight, I’ll take you down.’


	13. Corvo: Morley Square

Thomas’s scream echoes between ruined buildings, and Corvo has fired before he’s thought. Daud’s faster, though: a bullet hole blooms in the man’s forehead even as Corvo’s sleep dart hits him in the neck. The guard reels back, but instead of falling the body drifts downwards, colour draining from the shadows and light alike. Thomas’s voice cuts off sharp, leaving Corvo’s head feeling stuffed with wool, his hand throbbing as time slows and then stops. Recognising the effect, he scans the rubble for other threats, but there’s nothing other than the time-seized corpse, so he turns to Daud.

Or where Daud was – the man’s kneeling now at Thomas’s side, his Mark still glowing with the effort of maintaining the pocket outside time as he unbuckles his supply belts and pulls his coat off, stares at the ruin of the boy’s left arm. He must have meant to stifle the flames, but the bullet did its damage the moment it hit, impact and whale oil shattering across the sleeve, and the glimmering white of the fire is nothing but an aftershock. Still, Daud pulls a vial of elixir from a pouch, drapes his coat over the arm, and looks up. Time is beginning to bleed back in, colours drifting away from white and the guardsman’s body starting to fall.

‘Can you hold him still?’ Daud asks, sorting through a roll of glowing darts. Corvo understands that he’s not being asked about ability but about willingness. He blinks wordlessly to kneel at Thomas’s back, restraining the boy’s remaining arm as colour and sound return like the snap of a crossbow string.

Thomas’s body lurches with the force of terror and pain, his scream crashing out into the suddenly un-still air. Corvo tightens his grip, grimacing as his damaged ribs are jarred, and looks to Emily. She’s watching, eyes wide. He shakes his head and spares a quick smile when she begins to move closer. She nods, swallowing hard.

At Thomas’s side, Daud is talking quietly whilst the flames die beneath the heavy wool. His voice is low and focussed, his words inaudible beneath Thomas’s agonised whimpers as the cloth presses against the wounds beneath. The fire stifled, Daud pulls the cloth away, jaw tightening at Thomas’s yell of pain, and unscrews the cap from the elixir vial, tipping it against the boy’s lips. As Thomas drinks, his instinctive struggles against Corvo’s hold become shudders. Corvo releases his grip on the boy’s arm but stays kneeling against his back, wary of jarring his injuries with a sudden movement.

Daud is murmuring to Thomas as the boy drains the elixir, his deep voice oddly soothing. His eyes meet Corvo’s over Thomas’s head, and he flicks his attention to his free hand. Corvo sees the bright green darts held against Thomas’s neck and nods, bracing himself. Daud drives the metal points in one after the other. Corvo lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding as Thomas falls slack in his arms.

‘I’ll carry him,’ Daud says, slinging his belts back on. He leaves the rags that remain of the red coat on the floor. ‘We’d better get going.’

A wave of exhaustion sweeps over Corvo as he regains his feet, and he catches himself before he stumbles. No time for that. Emily is picking her way over the rubble towards him, specks of Thomas’s blood standing out stark on her face. He reaches an arm around her shoulders in a hug, lets her cling to him for the moment that she allows herself before she pulls back. She’s filthy, her hair and clothes torn and powdered with ash and dust, but she straightens her shoulders and sets off after Daud, trusting to Corvo to follow. He kneels for a moment to tear a strip of cloth from the discarded coat, tying it tight around the damp warmth of his bleeding arm, and then heads after her.

One day, he hopes, he will be proud of her for small, everyday things again, rather than for the kind of bravery that a child shouldn’t ever have to show.

It begins to rain as they leave the collapsed buildings, and within moments the sparse drops have become a cloudburst that bleeds the afternoon to near-darkness. The streets are empty of all movement beyond the shifting screen of the downpour, the cobbles and flags suddenly treacherous. Corvo picks Emily up, gritting his teeth as her knee bumps his bruised ribs, and follows the shadows of Daud’s barely-visible transversals towards the docks.

The streets open out abruptly onto the flat void of the river, and the sky is suddenly vast, the north bank hidden. Corvo barely recognises these docks so empty of ships, but the glow of a leading light stutters through the rain, and Daud drops out of a transversal and walks swiftly towards it, shifting Thomas’s limp form on his shoulder.

 _There is shelter here, and a heart warmer than any hearth_ , Jessamine says, her voice crystal clear beneath the rain.

Corvo would honestly prefer the hearth right now: Emily is drenched through, shivering in his arms as he walks down the wooden jetty after Daud. But the leading light becomes the Amaranth’s prow, her stern jutting out over the dark water, and as they move closer Samuel is suddenly there, calm and capable in his heavy coat. Daud waits on the jetty as the boatman helps Emily down onto the Amaranth’s bench and tucks a tarp around her shoulders, handing her a flask that steams when she opens it. Once she’s taken a sip, Samuel turns back to the men, and his brow creases with concern as he takes in the unconscious Whaler, the hastily-bandaged gash in Corvo’s shoulder.

‘You’ll forgive me for saying you’re in no condition to be rushing to the Bridge, gents,’ he says doubtfully.

Corvo can’t find a reply. He knows the truth of it, but what else can he do? Daud stays silent, and Samuel sighs and helps him to hand Thomas into the boat, propping the boy beside the steering bench. Thomas’s left arm is a mess of burned cloth and flesh to the shoulder, and what’s visible of his skin is too pale. Emily stares at him, still shivering under her tarp despite the hot drink; Daud doesn’t seem able to look, sitting on the edge of the jetty with his feet in the boat and his gaze somewhere out on the river.

Corvo sinks into a crouch on the wooden boards, pushes rain-slick hair out of his face again and winces at the pain from his ribs.

‘We need to get to Tobias,’ he says. ‘With the Guard and the Overseers in his pocket it’ll be Burrows all over again, and I’m not letting that happen.’

‘You’re walking wounded, Attano,’ Daud growls, still not looking at him. ‘You go to the Bridge by yourself and the Guard’ll stomp all over you, and you’ll be back in Coldridge before you know it.’

‘Then come with me,’ Corvo snaps, stung by the casual tone. He knows there’s no reason for his challenge to be accepted; Daud didn’t have to come even this far with him, and Void knows why he did.

The assassin busies himself with pulling off his supply belts, and sits down on the steering bench in his sodden shirtsleeves calmly as if he’s in his own home, wiping the rain from his face. ‘I plan to. Thomas needs a physician and Sokolov’s the only one in Dunwall I trust to amputate without killing him. But we’re taking backup. Get in the boat. Beechworth, d’you know where the Undine’s docked?’

Backup? Corvo grimaces as he eases himself down beside Emily, the boat settling low under the weight of four men and a child. He’d been under the impression that the Whalers worked alone, and that they were all at Morley Square. Then again, it’s not so strange that a man as deeply embedded in Dunwall’s underbelly as Daud has other allies.

Samuel starts up the engine with a nod, heading out across the river. Corvo pulls Emily’s tarp over her head to protect her from the rain and lets her lean against him, seemingly too tired to even shiver anymore. She hands him the flask and he takes a sip, letting the hot tea seep into his chest before passing it forward. Daud takes it gratefully, and Corvo pats his coat pockets, looking for something to get his dripping hair out of his eyes.

‘Heard of the Dead Eels?’ Daud asks, voice raised over the rain now they’re out on the open river. He’s laid his supply belts over his knees, checking pouches and straps and moving darts to the cuff of his wristbow, his shirtsleeves and pale waistcoat unbuttoned.

Corvo nods slowly, dredging his mind for what he knows of the gang. They’ve been around for a while, had been starting to make waves when – when he was imprisoned. Even before the Plague, there were always river gangs. ‘You think they’ll help us?’ he asks doubtfully. Sure, the Hatters have been aiding with the rebuild in the Trade District, but there’s been no indication that the Dead Eels might be stepping up.

‘Might do. Lizzy and I are square at the moment, I’m sure she’ll jump at the chance to have me owe her again. Not to mention the Empress and the Lord Protector.’

‘I might not even be the Empress after this,’ Emily mumbles, her voice slurred with tiredness.

‘Hush,’ Corvo tells her gently. He finally locates the tie, and pulls his hair up and winds it around, tying the dripping, curling mess out of the way. ‘We’ll get you somewhere safe and dry and then we’ll sort all this out.’

He says it without much conviction. It seems that no matter what he does they lurch from crisis to crisis, and it’s getting harder every time to believe that they’ll make it through all of this. Daud’s gang might help or they might take one look at Emily and decide to ransom her to General Tobias. And Tobias himself… Corvo knows he should be angry at the man, should be boiling with rage, but the emotions he knows he _should_ be feeling might be on the other side of a window for all that he can reach them. All he can manage is faint relief that Daud at least seems to know what to do next, but he has to remind himself that the man’s only helping as a favour to Waverly. He’ll be gone again in the morning if they all survive this, and just as well; better to lose new allies than be betrayed by them.

Corvo maintains that he’s not a religious man, but out there on the river, surrounded by water and darkness and the hum of the bonecharms Daud is wearing, he feels the draw of it, and finds himself murmuring something like a prayer into the tarp covering Emily’s head. ‘Get us out of here safe and sound, you black-eyed bastard, and I’ll build you a shrine in the Tower itself.’ His words are swallowed whole by the rain, but short of drowning or an actual shrine, he suspects it’s the closest a man can get to the Void.

 

Lizzy Stride’s teeth are filed to points, and her tattoos are mesmerising, more ink visible than skin. Corvo hangs back, wary as she pulls Daud into what looks like a bone-crushing hug and passes a critical eye over their unconscious charges, Thomas drugged and Emily sleeping like the dead. The Undine is moored in the shelter of a flooded warehouse that’s missing half of its roof, but it’s as close to dry as Corvo’s been for what feels like hours, and some of the numbness is receding from his head.

‘Sam, mate, can you take the little lady belowdecks, get her out of the rain?’ Lizzy suggests. Corvo moves to pick Emily up instead, but Lizzy coughs, and when he looks at her she shakes her head, those filed teeth bright. ‘You ain’t crew or ally, Corvo Attano, and since you’ve taken a few hits and I know at least one of my crew’d like to see the hagfish get your guts, I advise you stay where I can see you.’

Corvo’s hand falls to the hilt of his blade, injury and exhaustion and cold be damned. ‘And yet you expect me to let _her_ out of my sight?’ he asks. He’s somewhat gratified to see that Samuel hasn’t moved, that Daud’s left hand is curled ready for his wristbow to be used. A pirate crew is the last place he’d expect to find enemies; he’s generally been careful to avoid injury to anyone who isn’t his target, and as Lord Protector he’s not been involved in policing either.

The Heart stirs inside Corvo’s coat, beats slow and strong. _She does not wish to see another child lose her father_ , Jessamine murmurs. It could be a warning as easily as a reassurance.

Daud murmurs something to Lizzy that Corvo can’t quite hear, his eyes on Corvo as he speaks. Lizzy’s gaze flicks from Corvo to Emily and back.

After what feels like an age, she nods shortly, and speaks over her shoulder to one of the villainous-looking crew behind her. ‘Tell Elsie I want her and her doctoring kit below, sharpish, and she can leave the attitude on the bridge.’

‘Sure thing, Lizzy,’ one of them says, and darts off.

‘Now, we’ll go belowdecks together, nice and slow, and get us _all_ out of the rain,’ Lizzy says. ‘Happy with that, your Lord Protectorship?’

Daud’s relaxed; Corvo nods, taking his cue from the assassin, odd as it feels. ‘Just Corvo, please,’ he says, and given the circumstances, that doesn’t feel like enough. He searches for the right words, pulls them up with what feels like physical effort. ‘Thank you. Apologies for my rudeness; it’s been a long day already.’

Lizzy whistles, clapping Daud on the arm. ‘Well, you’ve brought me a rare gentleman here! Got a mouth on him like a fucking courtier, he has.’

The look that Daud is giving Corvo seems to be half surprise, half wariness. ‘Apparently so,’ the assassin agrees.

Teeth flash as Lizzy bobs what Corvo assumes is meant to be a curtsey, and she gestures to Emily. ‘Get your girl, then, Corvo, and Daud here can get his boy, and then the old codger can tell me what in the Void he’s done to my Tommy and why he’s brought the Empress aboard my boat.’

Corvo crouches down beside Emily, pulling her arms around his neck. Still half-asleep, she clings to him like a small, damp limpet, curling her legs around his waist and mumbling into his neck. Not the most convenient way to carry her, but he hoists her up anyway, careful to spare his injured shoulder and ribs as much as he can. One of the crew steps forward to help Daud with Thomas, and Lizzy beckons them to follow her down.

The Undine has a surprisingly decent amount of space in its cargo hold; then again, Corvo figures that must make sense for a smuggling vessel. He refrains from paying close attention to the bales and boxes, focusses on keeping his footing on the gently-rocking boards. Emily stirs in his arms, restless, her forehead pressing against his chin. She’s warm from sleep, radiating heat despite her drenched clothes, and Corvo brushes her hair back from her face and looks up to see Lizzy stringing out a hammock in a cleared area towards the back of the tug.

‘Bed her down and we’ll see about getting you into some dry togs and sorting out that shoulder of yours, once Elsie’s looked at Tommy,’ she says. Beside her, Daud is laying Thomas out on the floor.

Frustration bubbles up in Corvo’s throat. ‘We don’t have _time_ to—’

‘Lizzy, can you get us under way to Kaldwin’s Bridge?’ Daud interrupts, straightening up from Thomas’s side. He scrubs a hand through his dripping hair, brushing out rainwater and letting it fall into his face. ‘You can drop us off and pass straight through if you’re not interested in our proposition, but Corvo’s not far off the mark — we’re against the clock here.’

‘Well,’ Lizzy says, raising an eyebrow. ‘You only had to ask; I’m always open to a proposition from a couple of gents as deadly and handsome as yourselves. Give me a moment and I’ll be back for more.’ Corvo feels his face flame at her lascivious wink, and turns away before it can be seen, irritated at himself. He concentrates on disentangling Emily into the hammock as Lizzy slips off above deck, yelling various nautical-sounding orders.

There’s a tense chuckle from Daud, who’s kneeling beside Thomas as he checks the boy’s pulse. ‘Your face, Attano. Lizzy’s gay as a Karnacan summer, she’s just winding you up.’

The sudden levity is disorienting, and fortunately Corvo’s saved from a response by someone thumping down the steps with a leather bag. As they turn the corner he does a double-take; the newcomer’s appearance is striking even for a gang member, her face covered in swirling tattoos and her deep red hair cut ragged and uneven.

‘You Elsie?’ Daud demands.

Elsie nods, staring down at Thomas. ‘What in the Void did you do to him?’ she asks. Her accent rings with what she might have been before the Plague, just barely overlaid by Dunwall street inflections. A lawyer, perhaps, or a banker — maybe even an actual doctor.

‘An incendiary bullet hit him in the arm,’ Daud explains, moving so that she can kneel to examine Thomas. ‘I need him stable until I can get him to Sokolov for amputation. Know I shouldn’t have moved him or knocked him out, but we didn’t have time for niceties. What does he need?’

‘To get warmer, for a start,’ Elsie says, touching her hand to the boy’s pale, damp forehead and taking his pulse. ‘The crew keep blankets here for the colder night runs — should be a few over there, in a metal crate.’

Fairly sure that Emily’s not going to wake up just yet, Corvo pulls off his sodden coat and hangs it on a strut, and heads for the corner of the tug that she indicated with a vague wave. ‘I’ll get them.’ Perhaps he should be saving his scant remaining energy for protecting Emily, but without Thomas, he’s fairly sure that she would be dead by now anyway. A blanket is the least he can do, and helping will keep him busy. Daud, who’d already stood, looks at him with what Corvo’s fairly sure is something like suspicion, but then shrugs and turns back to Thomas, already concentrating on Elsie’s next instructions.

Corvo crosses the cargo hold, looks around until he spots the corner of a massive storage crate, hidden beneath unmarked boxes and wrapped bales. He grits his teeth as he lifts them out of the way, his injuries protesting the movement; he’s done more with worse. There’s a pile of rough blankets inside, and he bundles up a couple, keeping them away from the damp front of his waistcoat.

The boat lurches as he turns from the crate, and he grabs at a strut to stay upright, disoriented.

‘You all right there, handsome?’ Lizzy asks from the top of the steps.

Corvo forces himself to let go of the strut and stand, adjusting the blankets he’d almost dropped. ‘Aye, fine,’ he says. ‘Just lost my balance a bit when the boat moved.’

The pirate gives him an odd look as she comes down the steps. ‘Wrenhaven’s still as a millpond today, you must have shite sea legs. Here, I’ll take them blankets to Elsie and you can practice walking in a straight line in peace. They for Tommy?’

The blankets are unceremoniously removed from Corvo’s arms almost before he answers. He follows Lizzy back, leaning against the hold wall and watching as she swathes Thomas in blankets, carefully avoiding the injured arm. Daud’s tracking the boy’s pulse with a couple of fingers at his neck whilst Elsie cuts his shirt away, fast and practised. Corvo can’t help feeling a little useless. Thomas has saved Emily’s life twice now, maybe more, and from the look on Elsie’s face, this time might end up costing him his.

Lizzy finishes tucking the blankets around Thomas’s boots, and eyes Corvo as she grabs a bottle and a roll of cloth from Elsie’s bag. ‘I’m no sawbones, but that arm needs wrapping properly and I can at least do that. Sit,’ she tells Corvo, gesturing at a crate.

He obeys, carefully to avoid pulling at his ribs. Lizzy crouches beside him and tugs at the crimson cloth wrapped around his arm, then takes a knife from her belt and starts cutting through it. Looking down, Corvo can’t tell how much of the red is from the original colour of Daud’s coat and how much is blood, which he dimly knows is probably not good. He watches dully as the cloth’s pulled away from the skin, blood glistening in the gap of his cut sleeve.

‘Shirt off unless you want it soaked with shit brandy, Attano, and the two of you had better start telling me why you want me at Kaldwin’s Bridge,’ Lizzy orders, sitting back on the boards.

The buttonholes of Corvo’s waistcoat are stiff, impossible to undo even with thin gloves, and his wet gloves are all but stuck to his hands. He bites down on the fingertips, tugs them off one by one.

He realises halfway through that Daud is staring at him over his shoulder, waiting for him to talk to Lizzie. A vague irritation surfaces through the haze that is Corvo’s mind: the plan to come here was Daud’s, and it doesn’t seem much to expect the man to explain the situation. Gloves off, Corvo turns his attention to his bloodied waistcoat, hoping that he’s in company that won’t make a fuss about the ink-black Mark on his bared hand. Given that Daud’s gloves are tucked into his belt, the Outsider’s sigil stark on the hand pressed to Thomas’s throat, he doubts it.

‘We’ve just come from Morley Square; most of my lot are still there,’ Daud explains finally. Corvo ignores the disgruntled look that the assassin is giving him for not speaking. ‘Empress was giving a speech, someone released a few dozen weepers into the crowd, the Overseers and Tower Guard went after the Empress’s people instead of them. We’re fairly sure General Tobias is behind it, and that he’s planning something at Sokolov’s place on Kaldwin’s Bridge, since he sent the High Overseer there and told Corvo he was going to Holger Square. Might be he’s not there – Void knows I was incredibly wrong about how he’d try this assassination – but we know he’s planning on a new High Overseer, and I’d want to get the current one locked down first. We’ve sent two of mine ahead, but if we could borrow your crew, I’d have a lot more faith in our ability to secure the building.’

‘“Borrow”,’ Lizzy repeats flatly. ‘You want us to storm a building, you’re going to need to show us some coin, Daud. I don’t risk my crew’s lives for the pleasure of your friendship – I’ve got wages to pay to people who’ve got mouths to feed.’

‘The Empress of the Isles is asleep in your cargo hold right now, Lizzy, I’m sure she can figure something out.’

‘Although the last person who tried to use her to bargain with got a bullet to the head and a sea burial from a great height,’ Corvo notes quietly as he undoes the last few buttons on his shirt and pulls it and his waistcoat from his left side. Both garments are ruined, torn and bloodstained from the blades that got through his guard. He considers what he’s just said but doesn’t feel the need to include that Havelock shot himself; if he hadn’t, Corvo might well have done it for him.

Daud glares nevertheless. ‘I wasn’t suggesting ransom, Attano; I’m not suicidal enough to do that with you right there even if it wasn’t a dumb idea.’

Corvo shrugs, twisting slowly to peel the blood-saturated cloth from his right shoulder, and discards both shirt and waistcoat. There’s a low whistle of appreciation from Lizzy. Corvo’s almost expecting another amused comment from Daud about her teasing, but when he looks down he realises that his chest, arms and abdominals are a mass of heavy bruises, ornamented by the red of cuts and grazes. Even Daud looks begrudgingly impressed by the amount of damage he’s taken.

‘I had a couple of vials of elixir, but they broke in the fall,’ he says, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. He needs to be ready to defend Emily if another attempt is made on her life, and he currently feels far from ready for anything more taxing than sleep. ‘Does anyone have a spare?’

‘Elixir?’ Lizzy asks. ‘What, Sokolov’s stuff? What for, you get bit?’

Daud shakes his head, eyes still flicking over Corvo as he checks his injuries. ‘It has an enhanced effect on anyone Marked. Deadens pain and accelerates healing. I have no idea how Sokolov managed that; I’m not sure if he even knows.’

‘Elsie?’ Lizzy says when the woman doesn’t respond.

‘There’s one in the bag, but that’s our dose for emergencies,’ Elsie says reluctantly, her attention still on the work she’s doing on Thomas’s arm.

‘Sokolov’s got an entire vat of it at the Bridge. He’ll reimburse ten times over if you come with us,’ Corvo tells her. ‘And if you don’t, send Samuel to Ada White at the Tower and she’ll resupply you regardless of who’s on the throne.’ White’s loyalty has always been to the throne, not the person who sits on it, although she’ll happily give away an edge to a favoured candidate, so whatever happens today she’ll still be there tomorrow.

‘Give it to him, then, Daud,’ Lizzy decides easily.

Daud makes a noise that sounds oddly like a protest, but picks out a vial from the bag with his free hand and holds it out. ‘Get that cut sewn up first if you don’t want it scarring,’ he warns, eyes flicking to the bloody rent in Corvo’s shoulder.

‘Not my primary concern,’ Corvo says. He turns on the crate, presenting his back to Daud; he’s only let himself catch glimpses of the damage from repeated whippings at Coldridge, but he’s felt the ridges of scar tissue there, from his shoulders down almost to the small of his back. ‘I’ve taken worse and come through it.’ Flicking the vial open, he tips its contents into his mouth and shudders at the sharp relief that spreads through his upper body. Not enough of a dose to restore him completely, but the bruising fades to yellow and green, and the cut on his arm starts to heal over.

Daud is watching him when he turns back, looking thoughtful. Corvo wonders if the healing works differently for him, the way their Void-given abilities don’t quite match.

There’s a thud, and Daud turns a questioning scowl to Lizzy, whose now-unnecessary bandage and alcohol have just bounced off his leg as she attempted to throw them into the bag.

‘We were talking payment,’ Lizzy reminds them. ‘Attano, you got nothing to contribute to the pot?’

Stretching newly-healed skin and muscle, Corvo shakes his head. His ribs still ache, but at least he won’t be bleeding all over the place. ‘All of my assets were seized when I was put in Coldridge, and Burrows spent every penny trying to control the Plague,’ he tells Lizzy. That had been an unsurprising discovery. ‘If we succeed, I can promise payment from the Treasury, but if not, I’ll be of no use to you.’

‘Oh, I’m sure we can find a use for you, handsome,’ Lizzy leers. Next moment she’s all business again, shaking her head. ‘Look, Daud, you know my situation. Cough up, or at least tell me who I can talk to, or we chug right past.’

‘Waverly?’ Corvo suggests. He pulls the tie out of his hair and combs his fingers roughly through the tangled mass, then grabs his bloodied shirt and wrings water out into it. ‘She’s at Kaldwin’s Bridge too. I don’t know which side she’ll fall down on, but I’d bet on her making it through with her money and reputation intact regardless.’

Elsie swears, and Corvo glances over to see her pressing a rag to bleeding fingers, the knife she’d been using to cut Thomas’s sleeve fallen to the deck. To his surprise, Lizzy goes over to her, kneeling and taking Elsie’s hand in her own to inspect it before she lands a light kiss on Elsie’s cheek. ‘Good to wrap yourself up?’ she asks.

‘Sure – I’m a full-grown woman and you’d only sod it up,’ Elsie replies, a tone of fondness in her voice. Corvo busies himself with pulling his hair back into its tie when they kiss; they’re obviously fairly private about their relationship and it’s nothing to do with him. He meets Daud’s gaze when he raises his head again, the other man apparently having chosen to look at him rather than Lizzy and Elsie. Daud looks away quickly, adjusting the edge of a blanket over Thomas’s chest.

‘You done with all this talking?’ Elsie says eventually. ‘There’s nothing more I can do for the boy without a bone saw, and we must be nearly at the Bridge.’

Lizzy stands, nodding. ‘Aye, we’re done,’ she tells them all. ‘Waverly’s our woman; done business with her before, and if the worst comes to the worst, I can owe Daud another little field trip. Now, Attano, stop distracting Elsie with all them muscles and go find a shirt,’ she adds. Her grin’s sharp as knives when Elsie, who as far as Corvo can tell hasn’t looked at him once since she came in, snorts in irritation and stands, packing up her bag to leave. ‘Pretty sure that crate back there is a seamstress’s shipment, won’t be anything fancy but it’ll at least let the rest of us concentrate.’

It’s settled then, and Corvo welcomes the relief that spreads through him and ignores Lizzy’s mocking. He heads over to the open-topped crate of neatly-folded new clothes as Elsie goes above deck. As he sets aside piles of breeches and stockings, he hears Daud growl something to Lizzy, a hint of irritation in his voice. She’s clearly being careful to keep quiet when she replies, but her tone’s a little surprised, a little sharp.

Corvo digs into the crate, finding a pile of dark roughspun shirts, and eyes up collar sizes as Daud and Lizzy continue their conversation. He’s _reasonably_ sure Emily’s safe with them; if Daud had wanted her dead he’s had plenty of chances along the way, and the way the man’s been watching Corvo, as if he’s trying to understand a new weapon mechanism, suggests that maybe he does intend on sticking around after today if Corvo allows it.

Somehow, Jessamine doesn’t seem concerned by this. Corvo wants to consult her about it, but realises the Heart is still in his coat pocket. How strange, that the heart Daud stopped hangs less than a yard from his own.

Suddenly uncomfortable with that thought, Corvo picks out a shirt that he at least knows won’t be too small, and pulls it on. He heads over to his coat, barely catching the last few words from Lizzy (‘—care of yourself with this whole thing, will you?’) and Daud’s irritable nod as he pulls it off the strut and checks it for damage. The right sleeve is wet with blood and rain, inside and out, and the rest has fared little better, the waterproofing rendered useless by the rents in the fabric. There are a lot of those. Corvo finds himself worrying about how many, wondering whether he can really remain Emily’s Lord Protector if he can let so much get past his guard.

He slips a hand into the breast pocket under the pretence of checking for holes, and Jess’s heart pulses cold beneath his palm. _His mother told him to follow his own path, unless he found another that shone as clear to his eyes_ , she whispers, and stills. Corvo glances at Daud, sees him watching Emily sleep with his brow creased into a frown. He picks up the Heart, slides it into the breast pocket of the shirt. As his fingertips brush cool metal, it moves again, before the pocket collapses flat. _He begins to understand what she might have meant_ _for the first time in his life_.

The tug shudders as they dock, and Lizzy heads up to the deck. Corvo extracts his sword belt from his ruined coat and buckles it on, adjusting the pistol and blade at his hip and checking the couple of ammo pouches. He hates guns, avoids them as much as he can, but the efficient little crossbow Piero made for him fell out of its holster somewhere between Morley Square and here, so bullets it is. He pulls on his damp gloves, grimacing a little at the feel of them.

Daud is waiting for him at the foot of the stairs when he’s done, and they walk up to the deck. It’s slippery with water, although they’re dry enough underneath the bridge. The rain is a shimmering curtain of noise to either side, hiding them effectively from view of the house itself.

‘The kids are safe here if we can’t get Thomas to Sokolov; Lizzy’ll push off if the Undine’s threatened,’ Daud says.

‘The kids?’

Daud rolls his eyes. ‘The Whalers are enough of a pain in my ass that Thomas might as well be. My Mark doesn’t take well to those older than their twenties, so I’m old enough to have fathered most of them. Lizzy thinks it’s hilarious. As does that black-eyed fucker, I’m sure.’

‘As do we,’ a filtered woman’s voice says, and Daud rolls his eyes at the Whaler waiting for them — along with Cecelia, who Corvo is beginning to realise must be some kind of informant for them, perhaps has been since before the Loyalists sat down at a table together. Lizzy’s leaning against a pile of crates behind them, Elsie standing in the curve of her arm.

‘Always good to hear your opinion, Roberts,’ Daud says gruffly. ‘Report.’

‘Cee’s got this one actually, Master.’

Cecelia steps forward from behind Roberts, fills them in on the situation quickly and simply. When she’s done, Corvo’s wondering if Waverly might actually be more of an ally than he was expecting.

‘I know a way in that allows me to stay out of range of the music boxes,’ he says, remembering the vents at the top of the main building. ‘They’ve obviously got a plan, but if anything goes wrong, I want to be ready and in position.’

‘Waverly’s good at this, Corvo,’ Daud notes. ‘And she asks for help if she’s out of her depth.’

It feels like an accusation, and with everyone watching him and Emily vulnerable down below, Corvo wants to cave to it. He fights the urge to check his holstered pistol, shakes his head. ‘We’re in this mess because I underestimated and trusted someone I didn’t know. Maybe more than one someone,’ he adds, because whilst he’s never actually known the Outsider to lie, the creature has most certainly neglected to mention important points several times. ‘Take Thomas up; I’ll go by myself.’ He hesitates then, wondering if he’s making a terrible decision, but he’s not sure he has a choice. ‘No, wait. I’ll bring Emily up.’’

‘Elsie and I can keep an eye on the liddle thing,’ Lizzy says cautiously. ‘We’ll be down here if you need us.’

‘Thank you,’ Corvo says, but he’s more willing to trust Daud than someone he’s only just met, and _that_ thought makes him feel a little sick.

When they retrieve Thomas, Corvo hears the shocked intake of breath from Roberts, but she stays quiet as Daud pulls the boy over his shoulder. Corvo kisses Emily’s sleep-hot forehead and picks her up, and they’re off, blinking between bridge and buildings and climbing up to the laboratory.

Another Whaler greets them, his mask betraying nothing, but as Daud moves carefully towards Sokolov and Joplin, Corvo watches the blood drain from Cecelia’s face as she sees the full extent of the damage for the first time. She steps back to let Daud lie Thomas on one of the dissecting tables, Sokolov approaching wordlessly to examine him.

‘What have you _done_ to him?’ she hisses as Daud steps back to give Sokolov space.

Daud looks suddenly exhausted, scrubbing a hand through his damp hair. ‘People keep asking me that. _I_ didn’t do anything; he took an incendiary bullet protecting Emily. I didn’t realise what was happening in time to stop it. Anton, do you have the tools you need?’

Sokolov nods, moving to the sink to wash his hands. ‘I do. I believe a transhumeral amputation will be sufficient. Cecelia, you can eviscerate Daud later; I will require your assistance with this operation.’ As Cecelia moves to help, Corvo lays Emily carefully on the floor at the edge of the lab space, then heads for the door.

Daud blinks to his side, catching his arm. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he says.

‘Why?’

‘More eyes, more blades, a lower percentage of bruised ribs, it’s only sensible. Plus all of my allies seem to be throwing in their lot with you, and I intend to make sure they survive that.’

It’s hardly a declaration of loyalty, and Jessamine is unusually silent with Daud and his plethora of bone charms this close, but the man’s right. Corvo nods, claps his hand over the one on his arm in lieu of a handshake; Daud looks surprised, but firms his grip briefly before he pulls away. He opens a pouch on one of his belts, taking out a couple of charms, and holds them out.

The song of them shudders up through Corvo’s spine to his teeth. He takes them gingerly, feels the whispers of a language he’s never spoken telling him what they are as he puts them in his own belt pouch. This one muffles his footsteps; this one will shift the air when a bullet is fired at him, perhaps making it miss.

He nods. ‘Let’s go.’


	14. Martin: Kaldwin's Bridge

It’s really fucking wonderful, Martin thinks, how much damage Havelock is still doing from beyond his watery tomb. It’s just as well for Martin that the ham-fisted bastard wasn’t buried on land, really, because he hears that pissing on graves isn’t strictly speaking an approved pastime for the High Fucking Overseer.

Without that thrice-damned poison, Martin would have been up and about the morning after Kingsparrow, would never have left his Ma’s damned bonecharm in his room for some snivelling ballsack to find, would have caught this ruddy plot the day before it hatched and had the conspirators hanging from their wrists before they could so much as _say_ “heretical paraphernalia”. Oh, he bets that Void-eyed little asshole is laughing himself _silly_ on the other face of the world right now, utterly delighted that it’s one of his own relics and Martin’s ass-backwards sentimentality that’s got him under guard here rather than feeding out the rope for General Tobias to hang himself with. The next time Martin sees the boy he’ll do worse than just spit blood in his face.

But in the meantime, he’s got a part to play, beyond sitting on his hands and swearing silently at the abyss and at himself for having assumed Sokolov would be available to provide him with another dose of the anaesthetic liquid.

He reins his anger in, makes himself focus. With every passing minute Tobias looks more and more often over to the entrance, broadcasting clear as day that he’s waiting for news, and the longer that news fails to come, the lower the chances are that it’s going to be what he wants. From Martin’s not-unextensive experience, if your people don’t report back from an ambush straight away, chances are they’re not going to. Of course, Tobias will know that; Martin’s not the only veteran of the mess that remained in Morley long after the Insurrection was put down.

And so the General is becoming increasingly irritated with every minute that passes without news, while Vice Overseer Barton, a political appointee Martin is now deeply regretting, has already resorted to threats of violence, zealous even for an Overseer. Waverly, having clearly realised that any further unnecessary conversation might result in something unpredictable, has fallen silent, most probably waiting to enact the next phase of her plan. Martin can’t help but be impressed – he’d told her there was someone with a charm there, and within the next five minutes he’s fairly certain she’d had Cecelia plant the thing on Barton. The two of them have more courage than most of the soldiers he’s served with, to do that. Whatever Waverly’s planning, it might just get them out of this.

Then again, Waverly is also a woman not given to surplus feelings of attachment, and will undoubtedly be considering what she might gain by abandoning Martin (alongside Daud, Corvo and Emily, if they still live) and aiding Tobias. Martin knows he would be doing the same in her position. There’s a reason, after all, that people like them survive. Fortunately, he’s fairly confident that the answer is that there is nothing to be gained and everything to be lost: he knows about Lydia’s scrawled chalk and bleached bones, and even if Waverly conceals her treachery and he still feels bound to her friendship, everyone breaks beneath the tools of the Overseers sooner or later. Waverly might sacrifice a friend and ally, but he’s fairly confident that she will not risk losing her remaining sister.

This would be considerably easier if he could talk. As it is, it’ll be something of a challenge to see if he and Waverly can get themselves out of this situation before Marked ones start falling from the rafters.

Speaking of which. Pretending idle boredom, Martin scans the girders and heating pipes above the room, watching for that telltale shift of the shadows that he studied so carefully at the Hound Pits, unsure whether he’d ever get the chance to see it again. If the assassination attempt has failed, any intelligent person will have sent agents here to ensure the safety of the two most important people in the entire city: Sokolov and Joplin, in whose hands the cure to the Plague might rest even now. Whilst Martin has yet to ascertain whether he considers either Daud or Corvo particularly intelligent, he’s willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

And there it is. There’s an oddness to the air above one of the heating pipes, a rushing that slides Martin’s eyes away from it a little like the effect of Cecelia’s bonecharm, difficult to notice even if you’re looking for it. It’s not quite darkness or distortion of the light, but somehow one moment there’s nothing there, and the next the vision shifts to a crouching, tense outline that Martin recognises as Corvo, another figure beside him. The next instant, Martin’s vision shifts again, and both are gone.

Well. So either Emily is dead and Corvo is here for vengeance, or they both survived Tobias's attempt and the Lord Protector wants an arrest. Neither of these will be easily achieved with the abilities — and drawbacks— the man has from the Mark of the Outsider. There are eight men in this room alone, another ten within hailing distance. Oh, Martin has seen Corvo fight, on the rare occasion that a group of assassins managed to get close enough to Jessamine that he had to draw his blade, and the Lord Protector has always been grace and lethality in motion with sword in hand, but he is not immortal. One companion, whether it’s Daud himself or one of his assassins, won’t help him against a room full of Overseers and Sokolov devices.

If Martin had his voice, he’d sling some insult at Barton across the table and let the treacherous bastard take a swing at him, reveal the charm in his coat during the fight, but that avenue’s out. Still, his voice isn’t his only option, and whilst he’d love to wait on Waverly, he needs to do something fast, before Corvo gets himself killed.

He stands, pushing his chair away, and pretends it doesn’t take a supreme amount of self-control to stay calm in the face of the three pistols abruptly pointed in his direction.

‘Where the fuck are you going?’ Barton snarls. Tobias just folds his arms, ready to let the Overseers do his dirty work.

Martin rolls his eyes and grabs the stick he’s forced to walk with at the moment, attempting to express that he’s not exactly in any condition to flee. There’s a writing desk in the corner; once he has a pen, paper and some ink he can let that do his talking. Being shut in his room must have dulled his wits, to not have considered this way out earlier. Void, _Waverly_ realised before he did, and he’s only mentioned it to her once, that he recalls.

Waverly realises his intent and moves her chair out of his way, and he nods gratefully at her. ‘He can’t speak; he wants to write something,’ she tells Barton, managing the perfect mixture of condescension and helpfulness. 

Either Tobias or Barton must have made some kind of motion, because there’s a quiet sound of guns being holstered, and the Overseer beside the desk moves out of Martin’s way. He grabs a pen, a jar of ink and a couple of pages of paper, holds them out to the Overseer and glares until the man takes them, then gestures back to the table. He’s got one hand free, and he wants that for balance.

Once they’re back in place, Martin dips the pen and writes. He’s spent as much time perfecting his penmanship as he has removing all traces of Morley from his accent - no one takes a man seriously if they can’t understand him - and he pushes the paper at Barton once he’s written his single sentence.

‘ _This was a test, and the Abbey has failed it_ ,’ Barton reads aloud. ‘Oh, no, Martin, you don’t get to pull that bullshit. There was a heretical charm in your room, and you ordered a heretic unharmed. You’re not getting out of this.’ He slides the paper back, but Martin notes with satisfaction the slight twitch of bronze masks as Overseers glance at each other, off balance. Barton obviously notices as well, and Tobias.

‘Enough,’ Tobias says calmly. Martin could almost admire the man in other circumstances. In these, that calm could well be the end of Dunwall, the Empire, and thousands of lives. ‘Martin will have ample opportunity to plead his case before the Empress,’ the general notes. ‘No need to muddy the waters now.’

Waverly’s snort is ladylike, but loud enough that all eyes turn to her. ‘That’s assuming your assassination attempt at Morley Square has failed,’ she says. ‘By now, I would assume that the High Overseer’s witness, the young heretic you hired to kill her, died in protective custody?’

Barton’s mask is unreadable, but the way his head turns to Tobias is extremely clear, and Martin could honestly kiss Waverly. In one stroke she’s implicated Tobias, rid Martin of the quandary of the Whaler boy, and called Barton’s actions into question. And as a noblewoman and de facto head of one of the most powerful houses in the Empire, her word carries a weight that neither Tobias nor Barton can easily ignore.

To his credit, Tobias recovers quickly. ‘I spent most of the night with the Lord Protector planning to counter that threat, Lady Boyle; I am of course aware of it, and very much hope that it has failed. I am, however, intrigued that you seem to know so much, and that you believe _me_ responsible. Vice Overseer Barton informed me that you and Martin went to see the prisoner — perhaps to plant this idea in the boy’s head in exchange for clemency?’

‘To reassure him that he would be judged fairly if Lady Emily survived,’ Waverly shoots back, and turns to Barton. ‘Vice Overseer, is the boy alive?’

Barton glances at Tobias. ‘Unlikely,’ he says, and then seems to pull himself together. ‘I recalled most of the Overseers from Morley Square this morning upon the General’s reassurance that the Tower Guard presence would be increased to cover all possible eventualities.’ His voice is slowing with realisation, and his hands are trembling, and Martin is almost _relishing_ this. ‘I was assured that the High Overseer knew of this eventuality, and shortly afterwards Overseer Atkins came to me with a bone charm that he — that he _said_ he’d found under the High Overseer’s pillow.’ The correction is very clear, Barton already covering his back. And to be fair, Atkins would indeed have found the bonecharm there, since Martin’s been keeping it close since it saved his life, but Martin would very much like to know how Atkins knew to look on this exact day.

Waverly looks to Martin for comment, and he holds his hand out impatiently for the paper, which Barton hands down. The room is almost silent as Martin writes again, this time more at length. When he’s done, he hands it to Waverly, who reads it out.

‘ _A test to determine resolve — would the Abbey rise against High Overseer for heresy? Equally, to determine proportionality and suitability of reaction — should be discreet, immediate and just, with trial, to reassure all that the Abbey is stable and accountable. Precautions are constantly taken to prove the High Overseer’s innocence in this event; this was set in place before any awareness of an assassination plot_.’

Tobias raises an eyebrow. ‘Precautions?’

Martin sighs, demands the paper back, considers the measures that he took to protect himself as soon as he was named to his position.

 _‘Bone charm in question is identified and registered with the Abbey holdings_ ,’ Waverly reads as he writes. That one had been easy enough: the archives are badly kept, and it had been simple to toss another charm in the river and replace its entry with his own. _‘Various at Dunwall Tower and Holger Square informed of operation_.’ Corvo, Martin is fairly sure, will back him up on this, as the man knows about the charm and has his own significant incentive for keeping Martin in place. There are a number of Overseers Martin trusts to lie for him regarding matters that go against the Abbey, as he has for them. And finally, and this one gives him the most satisfaction, _‘Heretical items planted on various Overseers_.’ Half of whom had taken a long time to fall behind Martin on his promotion, the other half of whom had jumped to his side, many carefully chosen for their adherence to the Strictures.

And the last of whom, most recently and immensely conveniently for a demonstration, is Barton.

‘ _Check inside the Vice Overseer’s coat_ ,’ Waverly reads, and Martin watches in immense delight as Barton’s neck turns red with anger.

Tobias scoffs. ‘Foolishness,’ he says. ‘Martin is merely trying to distract from his heresy.’

‘With respect, General, all heresy is an Abbey matter,’ Overseer Laird says from the other side of the table, and Martin nods at him – Laird’s next in command if Barton falls. ‘Vice Overseer?’

Barton checks through his coat pockets, shakes his head. Laird steps forward and begins the methodical search, reaching into each pocket. Void’s sake, Martin hopes the thing hasn’t fallen on the floor.

It’s when Barton removes his coat that an Overseer behind them coughs, and Laird reaches around the other man, brings his hand back with a bonecharm held between two fingers. It’s a neat little thing, a hook on the back to attach it to a belt, and when Barton sees it he splutters in utter indignation. Laird just nods and drops the thing on the table, turns to Martin.

‘We’ll need to see your other assurances, Sir,’ he says levelly, and the other Overseers shift uneasily, and just like that Martin owns the entire building. Overseers are trained practically from birth to obey hierarchy, and if Laird, Martin and Barton are in accord, then that’s where the truth is.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Tobias grits out, and oh _now_ the man’s well and truly flapped, and Martin has to hide a smile. ‘Barton, you know perfectly well you didn’t—’

‘Sir, permission to send men to Morley Square to find out what’s going on?’ Barton snaps at Martin, and Martin nods. ‘Goddard, Bakunin, quit the Sokolov patrols here. I want half of the men here to be at Morley Square, fast as you can,’ Barton orders. ‘Offer any necessary assistance to the Lord Protector, and send someone back here to tell us the situation.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

Martin twists around in his chair so fast he feels something click in his spine.

 _Corvo_ is standing calmly by the doorway, arms folded. He looks a mess, clad in a roughspun shirt with a nasty bruise on his forehead, but he’s standing, with a gloved hand on his blade’s hilt, and those dark eyes of his are heralding storms to come even in a room full of Sokolov devices and Overseers.

‘Lady Emily lives, and this scum released weepers on Morley Square,’ the Lord Protector growls, gesturing at Tobias. ‘That necessary assistance can start with his arrest, assuming the Abbey remains allied with the Tower after Overseers stood asideto let weepers attack innocent civilians. After that, I want _every single Overseer_ back in Holger Square whilst the situation is dealt with.’

Two Overseers step hesitantly forward, but Tobias darts towards one of the Sokolov devices.

Martin watches in what feels like horrified slow motion as the handle turns, the screech of it making everyone in the room flinch – Corvo included. Martin, who has watched Whalers writhe in pain after a couple of seconds of the device, watches in horror, waiting for Corvo to cover his ears, to collapse. Everyone’s heard the rumours; all of them seem frozen, every one of them watching Corvo for some kind of reaction, Tobias looking increasingly desperate.

Five seconds in, the Lord Protector raises an eyebrow.

‘Did I misspeak?’ he says, and there’s the promise of steel in that voice.

The stunned Overseer wrenches the Sokolov device away from Tobias, and the other two take his arms. ‘There are empty prisoner pens; lock him in one of those, and if he is harmed I’ll have the head of the man or woman who does it,’ Corvo orders coldly. ‘He’ll stand trial in due course. The rest of you, with the High Overseer’s permission I want a word with him and Lady Boyle alone. I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t trust any of you any further than I can throw you right now,’ he adds, and Martin nods to Barton, giving permission.

The Vice Overseer ushers the others out, and Martin gives him a thin smile as they leave. Oh, they will be having _words_. As soon as he can speak.

Corvo doesn’t move until the last of them has left, still standing in the doorway. A few seconds after the sound of Barton heading down the steps at the end of the corridor, he speaks.

‘Everyone out of line of sight?’

‘Yes,’ Waverly says.

The steel leaves the man’s spine as if it’s turned to water, and he staggers a step before he falls to his knees, hands coming up to his temples, gathering his hair up to show blood trickling from his ears. ‘Fuck,’ he mumbles with feeling, and he pulls small plugs of bloodstained cloth from his nostrils. Martin can’t honestly help but be impressed by the man's apparent pain tolerance, although he’s also more than a little concerned that an Overseer might walk in at any moment and see this. Waverly is sitting back, mild distaste twisting her lip as she watches.

There’s a shifting of the air beside Corvo, and a man who cannot be anyone other than the Knife of Dunwall appears, kneeling down with a red vial that he presses to Corvo’s lips.

‘Drink,’ the assassin orders, his deep voice tinged with irritation.

Now _there’s_ an alliance Martin isn’t sure he believes, but Corvo actually obeys. Daud even helps him stand afterwards, a hand on his back to support him.

‘As I understand it, that was both brave and stupid,’ Waverly says once Corvo’s upright, his face visibly pale and bloodied.

‘Paid off, though,’ Daud notes quietly.

‘I needed to put those rumours to rest,’ Corvo adds, dabbing blood from his nose. ‘Now. Martin, I need you to shore up your power base properly, and begin curbing the Abbey’s tendencies towards melodrama. The Tower will help if need be.’

Martin nods, as unwilling as he is to admit that Corvo’s right. There’s a lot of cleaning up to be done, if the Abbey’s to join the Tower as a centre of the modern Empire. Starting with those who opposed him without even demanding a trial, and after that he’s going to go through the ranks with a fine-tooth comb. Martin may not be a good man, but he knows the rough shape of one, and far too many Overseers seem to base their morality on the sharpness of their blades and the size of their fists, rather than the truth of their words.

Daud pulls another vial from his belt pouch, and Martin recognises the glow of Sokolov’s anaesthetic and catches it when it’s tossed to him. It slides unpleasantly down his throat, but the numbing relief is wonderful.

‘Thank the fucking Void,’ he says, voice hoarse.

‘Wouldn’t do that if I were you, sometimes the bastard listens,’ Daud says. ‘You’ll be the High Overseer who sent a team into the Flooded District under Leonard Hume?’

Martin grimaces. ‘Hardly. Hume sent himself, and I found out about it too late to stop it. You’ll be the assassin who killed the last Empress?’

To his surprise, Daud actually laughs, although it’s short and very nearly devoid of any humour. ‘Fair,’ he concedes. He holds out a hand, and Martin can’t help glancing at the back of the glove, as if he might see the Mark through it. ‘I hear we both owe the Lord Protector our lives, willingly or not,’ the assassin says. ‘A truce, until we get things back to normal?’

Martin surprises himself as much as Daud when he says, ‘And perhaps for longer,’ and takes the man’s hand. Still, he already consorts with two known heretics; why not add another few? It doesn’t look as if the black-eyed boy has any intention of letting him go with just a warning this time, after all.

‘Waverly,’ Corvo says, pulling all attention back to him. Martin realises he’s leaning heavily on Daud’s arm, and wonders what on earth happened at Morley Square to make the Lord Protector look as if a building fell on him. ‘I was hesitant to ask due to my actions previously, but you’ve made it clear that you’re a valuable ally to have,’ Corvo tells Waverly, his words slow and careful. ‘You may not feel that you can live with what I did to Lady Esma, but if Emily is to reign, she desperately needs a Regent, and I am not up to the task. Will you stand for her?’

Waverly’s eyes narrow. ‘I will, for Dunwall and Jessamine’s sake. But don’t think for a second that you’re forgiven, Attano.’

Corvo nods. ‘Not for a second.’ He bows his head to her, and pulls away from Daud’s support, only to swear as he almost falls.

Daud catches him hurriedly, lending his arm again and leading the other man to a chair. ‘Stay there,’ he says in irritation, and then he moves over to the empty frame to view the main floor. ‘Lizzy!’ he calls down.

‘What can I do you for?’ a woman’s voice returns.

‘Elsie around?’

A pause, and then, ‘You’re in the Royal sodding Physician’s house, Daud.’

‘He’s busy with Thomas. Can you send Elsie up? Just Martin, Corvo and Waverly here.’

‘Will ask!’ the woman answers, and Daud nods to her and turns back to the room.

‘Is the boy badly injured?’ Martin asks carefully, very much aware of the violence that certain Overseers are known for inflicting.

‘Not from your lot, although judging from the blood on his clothes they certainly worked him over,’ Daud replies tersely. ‘He’s likely lost his arm, though, from the fighting in Morley Square. Anton’s operating now.’

‘I’m sorry for that,’ Martin admits. Only a little sorry that the boy was hurt by Overseers, since the cut on his cheek from their sole meeting is going to take some time to heal; considerably more sorry that he’s been made to look this incompetent in front of actual and potential allies. Daud’s nod of acknowledgement tells him that he’s probably not fooling the assassin about which it is.

Someone approaches on the metal walkway, and Daud glances through the doorframe and steps back to allow them room. The woman who enters is obviously from some street gang, wearing ragged clothing and facial tattoos but carrying a doctor’s bag, and she pauses in the doorway for a moment.

Waverly frowns at her — and then gasps and stands, eyes wide in shock and a hand to her mouth.

‘Your _face_!’ she murmurs, sounding thrilled. Martin’s only heard her use that tone of voice around two other people. He turns in his chair, does a double-take.

Esma Boyle grins, dropping her bag. ‘I know, Papa would be _furious_ ,’ she says. ‘I’m okay, Vee.’

Waverly rushes into her sister’s arms, clinging to her and sobbing, half furious and half jubilant. Martin glances at Daud’s slight smile, wondering how much the man knew as Esma mumbles quiet reassurances to her sister.

‘Hush, Vee, I'm fine, I’m better than fine, it’s all good, that bastard didn’t even touch me.’

Martin sees Corvo look at the two women, then to Daud, eyes narrowed. Daud just shrugs, looking more than a little smug. Martin suspects he might come to like the man, if this alliance holds.

Eventually Esma pulls back from her sister, tears in her eyes, and turns to Corvo.

‘Next time, Attano, _ask_ before you act,’ she says sourly. ‘The Empress was missing, and Burrows was the only stability in a time of plague. It’s the nobility’s duty to support the ruler, however contemptible they are.’

Martin winces at the glare Waverly sends him. He’s still not entirely off the hook for that himself, despite their lengthy discussions once he’d told her about his part in the affair.

Unsurprisingly, Corvo doesn’t bring the Loyalists back into it; Martin’s never known the man to blame anyone else for his actions, a hefty part of the reason he’s so awful at politics. ‘I hope there won’t be a next time,’ he says. ‘I apologise for my actions, Lady Boyle; I’m glad you’re safe.’

‘Yes, well, be grateful Lizzy’s a pirate as well as a smuggler and she was on the river that night,’ Esma says briskly. ‘Now, let’s have a look at you. I assume it was you I was called up here for?’

Corvo grimaces. ‘I’m fine. Just tired.’ He stands, pushing himself away from the table — and promptly collapses. Daud’s there in an instant, his arm under Corvo’s to lower him carefully to the floor. Martin glances at Waverly, wondering if she’s sketching out the same conclusions as he is, and from the tilt of her head he suspects so.

Esma sighs, and moves over to kneel down and press a hand to Corvo’s throat for a pulse. ‘He’s all right,’ she says after a moment. ‘Should regain consciousness soon. From what I saw on the Undine, it’s most likely exhaustion, combined with a bit of blood loss. Wonderful. Just what we needed right now.’

‘What else is wrong?’ Waverly asks slowly.

Esma stands, glancing up in the direction of the laboratory. ‘Sokolov’s fairly sure that Emily has contracted the Plague.’


	15. Daud: Kaldwin's Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daud isn’t sure why he’s still here. He should have returned to Rudshore, retreated back into the shadows and ruins he belongs in and the only family he’s known since he was abducted from his mother, and yet here he is, standing guard over a dying child Empress and a Lord Protector who doesn’t seem to care if he follows her beyond the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. Thank you for sticking with me, or for reading this whole thing for the first time, and I'll see you on the other side!

There’s a servants’ dormitory beneath the central hall of the Kaldwin’s Bridge facility, a long narrow room with low beds side by side and a rough kitchen with a table at one end just big enough for a hand of poker. A window runs the length of it, looking out onto the river and the bay when it’s not obscured by rain. As it is, Daud’s lit an oil lamp against the dark of the late winter afternoon, and it barely touches the shadows in the corners.

Not that the room’s other two inhabitants are in any condition to notice. Emily has passed into the fever stage of the Plague, and tosses and turns on the small bed at the far end of the room. Corvo sprawls at her bedside, freshly bandaged and snoring gently, his hair a tangled mess of waves over the sheets. Ivanov had offered him a Whaler mask to protect from contagion, but he’d declined and carried Emily down here, his drawn face daring anyone to question him. He was asleep in the dark by the time Daud came down here.

Upstairs, Thomas is unconscious in Sokolov’s quarters, his shoulder and what remains of his arm swathed in bandages, Cecelia and Ivanov at his side and instructed to fetch Daud if – _when_ – he wakes. There’s a gaping emptiness in the arcane bond where he should be, as if he’s been ripped out of Daud’s mind and left only raw and frayed edges. Daud’s lost other Whalers before, but not like this. Three died at Morley Square, his awareness of them blinking out as if they’d never existed; that’s what he’s used to. Billie was different, faded away so gradually he barely realised what was happening until she was gone, but the gap where Thomas should be twists and writhes, less like a missing tooth than a broken one, and it’s worse when he’s nearby.

Daud tears his attention from the break, taking a mental inventory of the building’s inhabitants. The natural philosophers are still working on their Plague cure, lit by candles and oil lamps that have seen hard use in the last weeks. Rinaldo appeared a couple of hours ago to report on casualties from Morley Square: besides the three Whalers, there were a good number of the Tower Guard and too many civilians. Martin’s there now, his Overseers burning bodies and holding the remaining traitors and Tobias under guard. Lady Chancellor White sent a messenger from the Tower with an audiograph report; those of the Guard who had been left there remained loyal to Emily. Waverly went back with the messenger, a scrawled assurance from Corvo in her hand and a team of Whalers following on the rooftops, Lizzy and Esma taking the river route to the water lock to ensure that Corvo’s promises were kept.

Daud isn’t sure why he’s still here. He should have returned to Rudshore, retreated back into the shadows and ruins he belongs in and the only family he’s known since he was abducted from his mother, and yet here he is, standing guard over a dying child Empress and a Lord Protector who doesn’t seem to care if he follows her beyond the Void. The city will go on without Emily, if it’s to go on at all. There’s nothing special about royal blood, after all, and if anyone’s capable of pulling Dunwall up from the mire it’s Waverly. And Corvo, as much as he’s done in the last few months, is still only one man, who means nothing to the wider court.

Months ago, Daud had thought of Corvo as just like all the others up in the Tower, just another noble with a fancy mask and a mouth full of lies, and had even been mildly amused that someone else had been framed for the Whalers’ actions. But then he’d actually read some of the reports he’d left to rot on his desk after Jessamine's death, and realised that no one – _no one_ – had stood up when Burrows dropped Attano into Coldridge on the flimsiest excuse, not a single one of the nobles who had watched him stand behind Jessamine Kaldwin and never falter for twenty years. Even the Kaldwin loyalists, with their grand ideas and their “loyalty” to the Kaldwin line, hadn't so much as considered for the first few months that maybe Jessamine hadn't misjudged the man who'd made her his world for two decades.

It had made it even more bemusing when Corvo had come and gone from the House like a ghost, taking nothing but Daud’s key and leaving a note that had ordered the Whalers out of the city as if he’d been Lord Regent already. Daud’s read the note dozens of times, folding and unfolding it until the edges of the paper are soft with wear, and he still doesn’t understand it. The look he’d seen in Corvo’s eyes as he’d turned from Jessamine’s body had promised his death, and he’d expected it — he’s seen people do worse for a lost love, although he’s never quite worked out what all of the fuss is about. Love and sex seem to be two sides of a coin he’s never seen as particularly worth its cost.

But anyone with eyes can see that Corvo’s world has been rebuilt around protecting Jessamine’s daughter, and it’s ending. Give it another couple of days, and perhaps Daud will have been present for the deaths of two Empresses. Maybe that’s why he’s still here, waiting for history to happen to him rather than happening to it.

The door opens, letting in a crack of light from the hallway outside, and Martin glances at Corvo and Emily, then comes over and pulls a chair out from the table, sitting with his legs stretched out and his cane at his side. He smells of smoke and a little of blood, and there are dark circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes.

‘Thought you’d gone back to Holger Square,’ Daud says, when he doesn’t speak.

Martin clears his throat. His voice is hoarse, ragged around the edges. ‘I did, before dropping in on the Trade District. Nothing much to do there, other than retrieve my property from the archives.’

‘Your property?’ Daud asks, raising an eyebrow. ‘I take it that would be the heretical paraphernalia your men were so worked up about. What’s the High Overseer doing worshipping the Outsider?’

Martin shoots him an amused look out of the corner of his eye. ‘Do _you_ worship him?’

Daud remembers years of hunting for shrines, of the whalesong that enthralled his whole being when he held a rune or a charm. Long past now. ‘Not anymore,’ he admits.

‘I’m sure he loves that.’

The familiarity of the tone might as well be an admission in kind. ‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Only a couple of times. Charm’s nothing to do with him, though — my mother gave it to me when I left, and it’s all I have of her. Not everyone whose ma was a witch follows her into the Void.’

Daud’s memories of his own mother are fragmented: fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, beads clicking in the braids of her hair as she leant over her work table, the bone of a carving seeming brilliantly white against her skin. He has nothing of hers; he was taken in the night with just the clothes on his back, and when he was finally free to return to her she was gone. He’d mentioned her carving in passing to someone once, and the information’s been blabbed from gossiping noble to anxious servant until now the whole city knows it. It doesn’t seem right, that that’s all she’s become, but he doesn’t have enough to make up the whole picture and anyway, he doesn’t know anyone who deserves it.

‘Didn’t know he spoke to anyone without a Mark,’ he says, glancing at Martin’s ungloved hands.

The Overseer accepts the change of subject gracefully. ‘He asked. I said no both times.’

Thirty long years ago, Daud doesn’t recall anything so polite as _asking_ before the Void seared itself into his skin and life. Still, at the time he practically dared the Outsider to do it, jabbed at the boy with tongue and blades and every half-truth he could figure out, and when he’d been on his knees clutching his wrist too tight as if he could pull his burning hand from his arm, it had been exactly what he’d wanted. Maybe that had been all the permission the black-eyed bastard had needed.

‘ _Both_ times?’ he asks.

‘First time was in the 20s,’ Martin answers. ‘I was bleeding out in some shitty back alley in Caulkenny because I’d made a whole flock of stupid decisions. I blacked out and woke up in the Void with him watching me. He said it was a shame I was so ready to kick the bucket when my future was so _interesting_. I told him to go fuck himself, and woke up in a charity hospital.’

The Overseer shifts in his seat, looks over to Corvo and Emily. ‘Second time was after Kingsparrow, when it was pretty certain I’d had it. Guess his favourite pulled his attention back to me. He seemed to find it fascinating that I’d sworn my loyalty to Emily, as if Corvo wouldn’t have thrown me into the sea with Havelock if I’d refused.’ He pauses, frowning. ‘I’m fairly sure he saved my life, actually, even after I told him to fuck off again. He pulled something out of me, just put his hand inside my chest and yanked out a handful of fuck knows what, and when I woke up I was going to live, with minimal internal damage. Again.’

Daud stares at the Overseer. He’s never had the Outsider do anything other than be cryptic at him; he wasn’t even aware the boy _could_ touch people in the Void, let alone do anything to them other than the Mark. Sure, there have always been the wild stories of people who’ve claimed the Outsider touched them, in less or more savoury ways, but he’s dismissed them all as bullshit up until now. Yet Martin gains nothing from lying to him.

‘You know, Barton told me they’d put Thomas in a freight carriage full of weepers who were supposed to come here for Sokolov’s experiments,’ Martin says then, still looking into the shadows that wash gently over Corvo and Emily. ‘But Sokolov’s certain he’s not showing any symptoms, and he doesn’t have any bites or scratches on him, just marks from fists and boots. Have any of your Whalers been attacked by weepers, or caught the Plague?’

Daud stifles the boiling in his blood at the way Thomas was treated. It’s certainly not entirely Martin’s fault. ‘They stay up in the rooftops, away from them, and they wear the masks to avoid infection,’ he replies. ‘Are you suggesting the Mark protects them somehow?’

Martin shrugs. ‘I’m suggesting it might. Our mutual friend may well have some influence on the Plague, in his own way.’

‘And he might just be interested in what happens to Corvo.’ Certainly Daud’s always got that last impression from the boy in the last few months — Corvo’s _interesting_ , _fascinating_ , all of those things that Daud was until he settled in Dunwall and started to take contracts.

‘Aye,’ Martin agrees. ‘My experience of Corvo is that he doesn't ask for much; he takes what he’s given and shuffles it around until it works for him. If he were to ask for this one thing, after how _interesting_ he’s been? He might get it.’ He glances across at Daud. ‘If you were to ask together, the odds might even increase.’

Daud snorts. ‘Not likely. Nothing I do is interesting now.’

‘But joining with another Marked one? I doubt that happens often. Accompanying Corvo to save the daughter of the woman you killed? Sounds just poetic enough that you might tip the balance.’ Martin hesitates, looks from Daud to Corvo and back again, the corner of his lip twisting in an amused smirk. ‘And of course, there’s that other thing I’m sure he’s noticed.’

‘Fuck you,’ Daud growls quietly.

‘Wouldn’t you rather—’

A movement from the other end of the room snaps Martin’s mouth shut, and they both watch Corvo stir, stretching out his back and pushing his hair off his face. He kneels up to check on Emily, brushing a hand over her forehead before he stands, buckling his sword belt and holster back on and heading for the door. He startles as he sees the two of them sitting there, and hesitates at the end of the row of beds, clearly reluctant to go close enough to them to leave the room.

‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ he says. ‘She’s contagious.’

‘Then neither should you,’ Martin replies, in the tone of one stating the obvious.

‘Fuck you,’ Corvo answers coldly, tiredly.

‘A popular sentiment today, it seems.’

Daud leans forward before the Overseer can say anything he’ll have to make him regret. ‘Actually, we were just discussing our mutual friend.’

Corvo’s face twists into distaste. ‘I wasn’t aware Overseers and heretics _had_ any mutual friends.’

‘Acquaintance, then,’ Martin says smoothly. ‘Also, Waverly. But we were actually talking about the young man who finds all of this so very interesting. Were you aware he saved my life after Kingsparrow?’

‘I thought that was me and a jug of sea water.’

‘His actions lead me to suspect that yours might just have delayed the inevitable. Pulled the poison out of me, and gave me a warning about all this whilst he was at it.’

‘Which you didn’t bother to pass on?’

Martin pulls a face. ‘You’ve spoken to him a few times, I’m sure. He doesn’t exactly provide an itinerary. Anyway, my point is that he can heal. Daud, help me out here.’

Corvo’s attention swings to Daud, his eyes narrowed. Daud shrugs. ‘Martin thinks that if you ask him - if _we_ ask him - he might help Emily. None of my Whalers have caught the Plague, so maybe it’s something he has control over.’

‘Why both of us?’

‘Two Marked working together?’ Martin says. ‘Emily’s father and the man who killed her mother?’

‘I’m her Lord Protector,’ Corvo snaps. ‘Nothing more.’

‘And yet she writes Daddy on her pictures of you. Look, all I’m saying is that I think he’ll appreciate the novelty. I don’t even know if you both _can_ enter the Void at the same time in the same place. But isn’t it worth a try?’

Corvo snorts, and walks past them to the door. Daud considers saying something to stop him, but he doesn’t have the words.

‘That’s it?’ Martin asks. ‘You’re just going to give up?’

‘I’m _just going_ to find a coat,’ Corvo says, stopping in the doorway. ‘Since it seems more than a little stupid to go into a winter storm without one. There’s a shrine near here, I guess that’s probably the best place to… find him.’

They’re doing this, then.

When he’s gone, Martin stands, opens his mouth to say something and then seems to think better of it, starts again. ‘I should get back to Holger Square; lots of politicking to do. Should I ask one of yours to come down to keep an eye on Emily?’

Daud shakes his head, and holds out his Marked hand to tug on the arcane bond. Roberts materialises beside him, mask in hand and dark circles beneath her eyes. ‘Stay with the kid?’ Daud asks her as he stands. ‘Corvo and I have business nearby. Shouldn’t take long.’

She nods shortly, settles herself in his chair and drops her mask to the floor. ‘Will do. Come back safe.’

 

The storm is raging, the wind gusting fast and strong and the rain so loud that it merges into one deafening roar. They don’t have to travel by the rooftops, at least; they blink between buildings at street level, Corvo first. Daud hasn’t really observed the other man using his powers, and is a little surprised to notice that instead of the shadows that surround the Whalers when they transverse, Corvo’s movements are echoed by a blue-white glow he recognises from the Void.

They pass under an archway and Corvo looks up and moves into a first floor room. Daud follows, walks with him to the outside balcony and watches him vault over the rain-slick railing, and decides to take the safer path. He transverses to the lower balcony to see Corvo hovering uncertainly in front of a mildewed shrine, ghostly in the violet light from the oil lamps. Daud’s never found a shrine in darkness, no matter how decayed the bodies nearby, no matter how dark the sky outside.

‘How do we do this?’ Corvo asks, the first words he’s said since they left the facility. They’re almost too quiet to hear, even with his hood thrown back.

Daud shrugs and comes inside, shedding his soaked oilskin. ‘He’s not the type to come when called.’ He lowers himself to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall opposite the balcony, out of the storm’s lash. ‘I usually just wait.’

‘What, really?’ Corvo asks, mouth twisting, but he removes his own oilskin. ‘For how long?’

‘A month, once.’ A long month, with snow piling high in the streets of Samara, the tang of reindeer jerky and the copper scent that had lingered in the furs he’d pulled off a dead man leagues outside the town. ‘I’m not sure he’d have come at all if I hadn’t been ready to freeze to death just to irritate him.’

He realises Corvo’s looking at him in horror, and relents. ‘That was an exception; I’d pissed him off, taking a job he didn’t like mostly because he didn’t like it.’

‘You annoyed the Leviathan deliberately?’

‘You’ve been Marked for what, a couple of months? Give it a few years and you’ll be going out of your way to annoy him too.’

The oil lamps flicker and pulse, and Daud glances at the shadows near the shrine. They’re drawing in, curling and shifting. ‘Here we go,’ he says, locking eyes with Corvo, and darkness washes through them both.

It clears to cold blue light, and the room disintegrates into obsidian shards at the other end of the floorboards. The storm is gone, replaced by Void light and debris. Daud considers standing, but Corvo looks reverent enough for the both of them, his eyes on the black-eyed boy leaning against the shrine.

‘What a _fascinating_ development,’ the Outsider says, tilting his head to one side as he regards the two of them. Daud resists the urge to strangle the boy. ‘Whole empires have risen and fallen since I last spoke to two of my Marked at the same time. More since two of them were united in a request.’

Of _course_ the creature knows why they’re here. ‘Will you do it or not?’ Daud asks. Corvo looks at him as if he’s gone mad.

‘Will I do what?’ the Outsider replies. A shift in the air, and abruptly he’s crouching down opposite Daud, those sea-depths eyes too close.

Corvo coughs. ‘Emily has the Plague.’

The Outsider looks back and up over his shoulder. ‘A boy living in the sewers of the Estate District has the Plague; he’s hiding on the pipes from the rats, and every time Lady Boyle runs her bath he balances on a tiny ledge so that he won’t get burned. A husband and wife stranded above the Flooded District both have the Plague; they tried to get hold of poison so that they could at least go quickly, but the apothecary wants gold for it. A seamstress in the Distillery District has the Plague; she also has twin children to nurse, born only three days ago, although they’ll be dead tomorrow so at least that won’t be a problem anymore. A sailor in the Port District has the Plague; this evening he’s going to try to run the blockade even though he knows he’ll fail, because he’d rather drown than leave his body to the rats.

‘Tell me, why is the Empress any different? Why does _she_ deserve to live whilst everyone else dies?’

‘She doesn’t,’ Corvo says wretchedly.

Daud rolls his eyes. Honestly, how is Corvo so utterly incapable of asking for something for himself? Most of the Marked he’s met have been utterly self-absorbed, but he’s not yet witnessed Corvo take a single action for his own benefit. ‘Whether she deserves to live or not isn’t the issue – we’re asking anyway.’

The Outsider disappears in a curl of shadows, reappears sitting on the shrine, legs dangling over the edge, hands on either side of his knees. ‘And you think the Void will listen?’ he asks, sounding amused.

Given that the Void is hovering there with wide dark eyes and they’ve not yet been thrown out, Daud has his suspicions, but he shrugs anyway. ‘You don’t ask, you don’t get.’

‘What will you do if you ask and don’t get, then?’ the Outsider asks. He disappears, and Daud stays where he is, arms folded and refusing even to give him the satisfaction of looking to see where he’s gone. Corvo turns in the direction of the boy’s voice, but that’s hardly a surprise. ‘At Martin’s suggestion, Sokolov has taken some of Vasily Ivanov’s blood, and even now he and Joplin are working on a new serum. It shows some promise. In four days, they’ll do their seventh test, and the factory worker they’ve given it to won’t die in agony like the others - she’ll live. She’ll even recover.’ A shift in the Void again, and true to form the boy reappears in front of Corvo. ‘Four days.’

Daud stares, stunned by the revelation that they’re so close to the end of this. The Plague has been an inescapable fact of his life over the months of its domination, and yet there’s an end in sight? It doesn’t seem possible. But. Four days. That’s –

‘Plague victims die in three,’ Corvo says stiffly. ‘Please. I’ll do —’

Daud transverses and has a hand over the man’s mouth before he can finish the sentence. ‘Void, Attano!’ he growls. ‘When will you learn to keep something back for your own damn self?’

The eyes above the leather of his glove are wide and shocked, yet Corvo hasn’t moved away, or moved to push him away. To his immense surprise and great relief, the Outsider, standing just behind him, doesn’t even say anything. Daud has the time to wonder crazily if they’ve become one of the frozen scenes the Void seems to enjoy so much, and then Corvo raises his hand, pulls Daud’s carefully away from his mouth and lowers both to his side. He doesn’t step away.

For a moment, Daud can hear something like a heartbeat, and a woman’s voice whispers among the whalesong.

‘When it doesn’t mean losing everything anyway,’ Corvo says quietly. He raises his voice just a little, although his eyes don’t move from Daud’s. There are glints of ochre in their deep brown, even in the cold light. ‘We’ve asked. What’s your answer?’

The Outsider appears at their side, hands behind his back, face impassive. ‘Years from now, a young woman stumbles into the Void,’ he says. ‘She either demands my Mark with all the bearing of an Empress or rejects it with all of the disdain of one, and either way says that I owe her that much. That the _Void_ owes her that much.’

He pauses, looking at something that neither of them can see, and Corvo is staring at him in horror. ‘She’s almost as angry as you are, Daud, that cold dawn when you bleed out into Redmoor Bay and want my Mark as little and as much as you want the salt filling your lungs.’ Daud shudders at the memory, feels the burning of his skin over the brand and the seawater in his throat all over again, and the Outsider tilts his head at Corvo. ‘She’s far more angry than you, Corvo, with your six months of scars and your clothes filthy with the blood of the lover you couldn’t save.’

 _That_ makes Corvo move, his face twisting into fury. Unthinking and irritated, Daud grabs his shoulders before he can take a swing at the Outsider and ruin any hope of a bargain, a move that Daud himself has made enough times to know it’s a bad idea. Corvo shudders once, but falls still, accepting the restraint with his head bowed, and Daud lets his grip loosen. It’s beginning to become evident that the only way to keep the Lord Protector and his death wish apart is through physical force, although Daud’s surprised to find that the man allows it from _him_ of all people.

The Outsider pretends not to notice. ‘I can grant her request a few years earlier, if she will accept it. That is my offer. Usually my Marked survive the Plague; sometimes, they don't. Which she’ll be is not something I decide.’

Corvo’s jaw is set, his arms tense beneath Daud’s hands as he stares at the boards beneath their feet. ‘She’s eleven years old,’ he says, something of pleading in his voice. ‘You’d give a child the abilities you’ve given us? What if she gets angry with someone?’

‘I’ve given you my offer,’ the Outsider answers, and the Void shifts again to move him away, somewhere above them. ‘This angling is dull. Are you refusing?’

‘You _know_ he’s not.’ Daud pushes down his irritation at the both of them, focusses on the one that matters. He views his debt to Emily and Dunwall as paid with the removal of Delilah; the debt to Corvo, he might manage to start paying here. Resisting the urge to try to just shake some sense into the man, he drops his hands away, giving him some space, and attempts to appeal to reason. ‘Emily’s a bright girl, from what I’ve seen of her. She’ll know well enough to come to you for help, and you’ll have time to give it to her with Waverly handling the Regency. Martin won’t move against her, not with the two of us protecting her—’ He cuts himself short, not sure where his thoughts and words are even going, and finds Corvo frowning at him consideringly. ‘That is. I’ll — _we_ will stay, if you let us. The Whalers, or those of us who want to. No more contracts, but when you replace the Royal Spymaster maybe we can help them out. And we can help Emily deal with the Mark, Void knows I’ve trained enough kids to use the powers.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘If you don’t accept his offer, she’s good as dead, unless she’s somehow one of the ones who can survive it, and you _know_ those numbers are low. Accept it, and maybe we can figure out how to avoid whatever it is that gets her demanding the Mark later.’

Corvo has his head a little on one side now, his brow furrowed as if he’s trying to understand what’s just been said. A decision is made; he dips his hand into the thin breast pocket of the shirt. Suddenly there’s something in his palm, overflowing it, dry dark flesh and twitching clockwork.

Daud recognises the shape from his anatomy classes at the Academy, reels back as Corvo cups a human heart in his hands, movement pulsing over it like a mockery of an actual heartbeat. What in the _Void…_?

There’s a sigh, quiet and female, filling the non-air around them, and Daud knows the voice from a hundred citywide proclamations and speeches. _You want me to point the way. Help you onto a path_ , Jessamine Kaldwin murmurs, impossibly. _No. Let us be lost here together for a moment._

That – Daud is aware that he’s staring – that _can’t_ be her actual heart. That can’t be _her_. How in the Void did the black-eyed bastard manage that? And more importantly, _why_? He’s beginning to understand how Corvo’s held on all this time, but he also can’t help wondering if the man’s actually managed to retain any of his sanity. The Lord Protector looks at the mesh of wire and meat in his hands as if it set the stars in the sky and then hurled them all to earth.

In almost thirty years, Daud’s never known the Outsider to be so cruel, and he’s not sure if it’s better or worse that the boy probably doesn’t even realise what he’s done.

Corvo’s eyes close, and his head shakes slowly back and forth as he stows the obscenity back in his pocket, the material falling flat as if there’s nothing there. Finally, he looks up at the Outsider.

‘Do it,’ he says. ‘If she accepts. And if it works… thank you.’

For a few moments, the Outsider looks bemused, the slightest of furrows in his brow, and then he nods shortly. Daud wonders if he’s ever been thanked before. Whether he has or not, he obviously finds it uncomfortable; light starts to bleed out of the Void before anything further can be said, and the roar of the thunderstorm leaks back in. The river’s waiting beyond the balcony once more, dark and choppy with the incoming tide until the lightning throws everything into stark relief, leaving afterimages burned onto the sky.

A look at Corvo’s expression tells Daud that now is not the time to ask why he’s carrying around the heart of a woman dead these past three seasons, and Corvo doesn’t volunteer the information. They pick up their oilskins and head back to the Bridge, the silence between them flooded by the storm. The Whalers on the door to the facility step aside smartly, and Daud waves a hand to tell them to report later as he follows Corvo down to the dormitory.

When the door opens Roberts looks up from the table, still unmasked. Across the room, Emily’s eyelashes flicker slowly. As Corvo crosses the room she raises her left hand as if to inspect a ring, tilting it back and forth; Daud watches the blue-yellow wisps of light fade away from the sharp dark lines, leaving them glossy and rich like the feathers of a raven; and outside, the sky burns like magnesium, brief and blinding white, and the thunder bellows its applause, and Corvo falls to his knees in front of his daughter and embraces her; and Daud had thought that this would be the end of it all, but somehow it feels like a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End, and it only took two years. Comments welcome, as always!
> 
> (Rumours of my ability to write a series _may_ be greatly exaggerated, but apparently i have no self-restraint whatsoever...)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & kudos are wonderful writer-enablers and make me immensely happy, especially on long fics! You're also welcome to come and hang out with me on [tumblr](http://intentandinvention.tumblr.com)!


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